Defend Me From My Friends
by mahc
Summary: Complete - finally! "On the forsaken prairie, alone except for the wind and dust, Kitty Russell's world fell apart."
1. Introduction

**Defend Me from My Friends**

A _Gunsmoke _Story

by MAHC (Amanda)

Introduction

Kitty Russell struggled in the grasp of her beefy captor as he dragged her from the damp cabin, shoving her out into the bright sunlight. It took her a moment to squint past the glare, but as soon as her eyes adjusted, she gasped at the sight of Matt Dillon forced to his knees, sagging in the grip of two of Jake Layton's goons, head down, shirt torn and soiled with stains that looked too much like blood.

_Oh, Matt_, she moaned to herself.

As if he heard her silent cry, he lifted his head, grimacing when he saw her. Kitty struggled in Layton's iron grip, his fingers digging into her arms so hard that she knew there would be bruises there by evening – if they all lived that long. Her eyes sought out Matt's, acknowledging the small shake of his head with a sigh before she calmed. Daylight had revealed just how much damage his own struggles had gained him, and she winced at the swollen right eye and bloodied lip Cantrell's colleagues had given him. She suspected by the way he held himself that a thorough examination would expose battered ribs and who knew what other injuries.

"You have what you want, Cantrell," Matt called to his former friend, who stood several feet away from the rest of the outlaws. Kitty heard the strain in his voice, a clear sign he was in pain. "Let her go."

"I wish I could, Matt," Glenn said, sounding almost sincere. "Wish I could."

The lawman's voice didn't quite sound desperate. "Tie her up with me, then. You'll be long gone by the time anyone finds us."

"You know the plan," Layton yelled toward Cantrell. "Finish 'im off and let's git outta here."

Cantrell frowned. "What about the woman?"

Layton leered at Kitty. "She's a pretty piece, thet's fer shore, but we ain't got th' time ta' entertain her. Shame. You take care of her man, there, an' she'll be occupied right ennuf fer us not ta' worry about."

"Aw, but you sed we cud take her – " one of the other men whined.

"I sed we ain't got time," Layton snapped back, his tone accepting no argument. The man glared at him, but didn't say anything else.

Cantrell nodded. "All right." He turned back toward Matt, drawing his pistol.

Kitty's heart leaped into her throat. "What – what are you doing?" she cried out.

But Cantrell ignored her. "I'm awful sorry about this, Matt," he said, raising the barrel so that it pointed toward the lawman. "Wish there was some other way."

"No!" Kitty yelled.

"Think what you're doing, Glenn," Matt warned. "Nothing but trouble is gonna follow you."

"It's been followin' me all my life, Matt." Cantrell took careful aim at Matt's head. "You just don't move and this'll be quick. At least I owe ya' that much."

Bound hand and foot, Matt could only clench his teeth. "Don't do it, Glenn."

"Don't move," Cantrell said again, and Kitty heard the ominous click of the hammer.

Before she could take another breath, the crack of a gunshot jarred her and she stared, horrified, as Matt's head snapped back, blood spraying, his big body thudding to the ground in one instant. He lay unmoving, a crimson pool spreading beneath his head.

The scream was ripped from her throat as she tore from Layton's grasp. Vaguely, she heard Cantrell say, "Leave her be," as she rushed to the sprawled body. Somewhere behind her horses galloped away, somewhere outlaws made their escape, somewhere justice was cheated.

But she didn't care. None of that mattered. Nothing mattered except the bloodied body of the man she loved. Falling to his side, she cried out his name, gathering his head in her lap, his blood soaking her skirt, smearing her hands. She touched his face, ashen and slack.

"Matt! Oh, God. Oh, please God, no! Please!"

On the forsaken prairie, alone except for the wind and dust, Kitty Russell's world fell apart.


	2. Chapter 1: A Few Wild Oats

"_Defend me from my friends; I can defend myself from my enemies." _

_Maréchal Villars, 1653 – 1734_

* * *

><p><strong>Defend Me from My Friends<strong>

**Chapter One: A Few Wild Oats**

**POV: Chester**

_Four days earlier:_

* * *

><p>"My daddy come west to Kansas,<p>

ta' make his home in Kansas."

Chester Goode's tenor voice slid off the walls of the jailhouse and breezed past his ears, and he smiled, content as he usually was after a satisfying breakfast of steak and eggs and coffee from Delmonico's.

"But all he made

was his own grave

when he crossed the path of Killer Dave – "

The tune was a little ditty he had composed all on his own to pass the time while he did odd chores for Marshal Dillon. Sometimes he found himself humming it even when he wasn't hard at work. In fact, more often than not, it – and others like it – served as entertainment to while away the hours he spent propped in a chair outside the marshal's office, observing his fellow Dodge citizens.

This morning, though, he had plenty to do, since the marshal was out and expected the place to be neat and clean when he returned. While he wasn't necessarily driven to keep busy, Chester nevertheless liked to help out, and anticipated the response he would receive from the returning lawman when he saw the results of his assistant's efforts. Yes, indeed, Mister Dillon would be pleased.

He paused in his work, leaning his chin on the handle of the broom as he imagined the moment. The thought so enthralled him that a couple of seconds passed before his brain registered that someone had spoken. With a jerk, he lifted his head to look toward the door, and sure enough a man stood there, his brow raised expectantly.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Chester said, squaring his body with the stranger's. "Did you say somethin' to me?"

"I said, 'Are you the marshal?'" The man's dark eyes glanced around uneasily, and he tugged at the wide-brimmed hat he wore.

Chester blinked. "Oh, Heavens no. The marshal – " He stopped, unsure of what this man wanted of Mister Dillon, unwilling to reveal exactly where the marshal was, or when he would return. "The marshal's out," he finished simply.

Scratching at a half-grown beard, the man asked, "When'll he be back?"

"Wael, I don't rightly know – "

"I'm lookin' for a man name of Matt Dillon," the stranger said.

Confused, Chester said, "Ya told me that."

The man looked equally confused. "No, I didn't. I said – look, can ya tell me where th' marshal is?"

Despite his curiosity, Chester suddenly realized the need to be cautious. "Any particular reason?" he probed warily.

"Some fella on the boards told me I could find him at the marshal's office." The man's eyes narrowed. "He in some kinda trouble?"

"The marshal?"

Apparently irritated, the man snapped, "Matt Dillon!"

If he hadn't been a bit consternated over the fellow's unreasonable impatience, Chester would have laughed. "Trouble? Oh, Lord, no. Why, he's – "

"'Cause if he is – if he busted up a saloon or somethin', I'll pay the damages." The man unfolded a healthy wad of greenbacks and ruffled through them.

Chester's eyes widened at the impressive display of wealth. "My, my. Are you a – a friend of Mister Dillon's?"

"_Mister _Dillon, huh? Well, maybe ol' Matt's doin' better for hisself than I thought."

"I don't know what you thought, Mister, but Mister Dillon's done right well for himself. In fact, he's – "

The door swung open abruptly, and the subject of their conversation strode in, shirt halfway unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, a string of fish in one hand, a pole in the other. Doc Adams followed right behind, his sleeves rolled up as well, his own string of fish noticeably smaller.

"I don't know how you do it, Matt," the older man complained. "We were barely ten feet from each other, and those fish practically jumped right onto your line."

"Patience, Doc," Matt advised sagely, not bothering to mask the gloating. "It just takes – " But he stopped abruptly as he looked up and saw the stranger with Chester.

"Gotcha a good string there, Mister Dillon," Chester noted, then couldn't help but add, "Doc, uh, your string ain't sa crowded."

"Oh, hush up. I'd like to see you – "

"Howdy." Matt greeted the stranger with his usual courteous caution.

"Well, I'll be," the man returned, scanning upward to take in the long frame before him.

The marshal paused and handed his pole and string of fish to Chester, his eyes scanning quickly over the visitor. "Can I help you, Mister?"

"You know, I figured it was nigh on impossible fer you ta' get any taller, but I see was wrong."

Matt squinted at the man for a moment.

Cocking his head to one side, the man declared, "And I still cain't believe I'd owe my life to no bluebelly!"

Chester's eyes flittered anxiously to gauge the marshal's reaction, but instead of taking offense to the insult, Matt let a sudden grin cross his lips and shook his head. "By golly! Glenn Cantrell." Reaching out, he took the man's right hand in both of his, pumping hard. "Glenn, I figured you to be rich or dead by now."

Cantrell returned the grin. "Neither. How 'bout you? I figured you'd have stopped growing, but I swear you're a half foot taller than last time I saw you."

Matt laughed and let his hands drop. "Not quite."

"So, you don't look like you're in trouble, goin' off fishin' and such. How come someone pointed me here to this hoosegow to find you?"

Matt pushed his hat back on his head. "Well – "

"Marshal!"

They turned to see Moss Grimmick hurry as much as he could down the steps, but Chester noticed that Cantrell wasn't paying any attention to him. Instead, he stared at Matt, his mouth open.

"Marshal?" he echoed, clear astonishment in his tone.

The United States Marshal shrugged and nodded.

"Well, I'll be – "

Moss caught his breath and said, "You wanted me to tell you when that fella that'uz down to the Lady Gay the other night come back."

Matt turned his attention to him. "Yeah?"

"Well, he's over to the Long Branch right now."

"Thanks, Moss."

"No problem." The older man threw an evaluating glance toward Cantrell as he left.

After an awkward moment of silence, during which Chester sized up this mysterious former acquaintance, Cantrell chuckled. "I'll be dadblamed. Matt Dillon a U.S. Marshal. Who'da ever figured that?"

Sidling up to the newcomer, Doc picked his teeth with a straw and asked, "You, ah, you've known Matt a while, have you?"

Cantrell slapped his leg. "A while? Why me and Matt wuz just about weaned together."

Matt grunted.

"Well, maybe not quite that long. I figger we hitched up not too long after we quit being saplings. 'Course, Matt always looked like a full growed tree next to the other boys."

"Boys?" Chester asked.

"Back in Texas before the war, there was a few of us half-growed fellas that run together. Feeling our oats and such."

"And Matt was one of you?" Doc asked, his eyes twinkling.

The marshal frowned at him, but it wasn't very convincing. It certainly didn't stop Doc from asking more.

"_One_ of us?" Cantrell declared. "He was our leader. Could out-ride, out-shoot, and out-drink us to the man."

Chester lifted a brow, trying to reconcile this image with the straight-arrow, stalwart lawman he knew. "Why, Mister Dillon, I ain't never seen you drink more'n a coupla beers at a time. Maybe a rye whiskey or two."

He was surprised to see the flush creep back across the Marshal's cheeks. "Well, Chester, I was young and kinda foolish back then. Guess I did sow a few wild oats."

Cantrell snorted. "A _few_?"

A look of distinct discomfort tightened Dillon's face.

"Anyway, then we went our separate ways coupla years or so before the hostilities commenced. Later heard thet ol' Matt had put on a Union kepi. Never could figure how a good Texas boy ended up a bluebelly."

"Cantrell – " Matt warned, but the other man just smiled.

"So here we run into each other again the evening of September nineteen of eighteen and sixty-three. I'd taken a mini-ball in the thigh and figured I was a goner – or at least my leg was. I was lying there for dead, which put me in good company since everybody around me was dead or almost there. Didn't see hide nor hair of a butternut shirt. Then, out of the trees, here comes this gangly, long-legged son of a bitch wearin' a damn blue jacket and kepi. I knowed there couldn't be two of 'em in the world, so I called out to him."

"And he took you to a medic."

"Yeah, but not just any medic. The idiot hauled me up over his shoulders and carried me half a mile back into my own lines so one of my own could tend me."

"Well, my goodness, Matt," Doc said incredulously. "How on earth did you keep from getting captured?"

Before the marshal could respond, Cantrell answered for him. "He didn't. Soon as the pickets saw us, they took me then set their sights right on ol' Matt."

"I didn't know you were a prisoner of war, Mister Dillon," Chester declared, truly surprised. The marshal didn't say much about his experiences during the late war, but Chester figured that little fact would have come up before now.

Matt bit at his lower lip. "Well – "

"Oh, he wasn't," Cantrell clarified. "At least not fer long. See, my colleagues made the mistake of puttin' only four men on him. By the time they come to again, my rescuer was long gone."

Chester looked at the marshal with something dangerously akin to awe on his face. "That was some more chance you took, Mister Dillon."

Matt shrugged. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."

Cantrell's expression eased into seriousness. "More'n likely saved my life. If I'd ended up at Rock Island or some place like it, I probably wouldn't be here telling you folks about it now. I sure did owe him. Still do, I figure."

Clearing his throat uncomfortably, the marshal drew his shoulders back and said, "How about I buy you a drink, Glenn?"

Chester smiled. Matt Dillon didn't hold much for praise.

"Well, now. That's more like it," Cantrell allowed. "You got a good saloon in this town?"

"The Long Branch," Matt offered.

"It's good?"

Chester piped up, "Oh, Miss Kitty's got 'bout the best place this side of Saint Louie, that's for sure."

His tone suddenly intrigued, Cantrell raised both eyebrows and grinned. "Miss Kitty, huh? Sounds like my kinda place." Slapping the marshal on the shoulder, he added, "Don't it, Matt?"

"Yeah."

The tight response drew Chester's attention, but when he looked he saw that the lawman's expression was the same as always. Hastily hanging the line of fish on the gun rack and propping the marshal's pole next to it, Chester limped out the door behind the group, eager to hear anything the newcomer might share about Matt Dillon's earlier – and apparently wilder – life.

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 2: Pretty Impressive

**Defend Me from My Friends**

**by MAHC (Amanda)**

**Chapter Two: Pretty Impressive**

**POV: Doc**

It looked as if the evening was starting early at Kitty's place, Doc observed, which probably meant a late night for Matt and the promise of unwanted business for the town's physician. At least twenty patrons already enjoyed the offerings of beer, women, and cards.

Cantrell whistled in appreciation as they made their way to a back table. "Ain't seen nothin' this fine in a long time."

"I told ya," Chester reminded, his voice proud.

Just as he tugged out a chair to sit, Doc saw Matt stop suddenly, his eyes narrowing toward the bar. "You go on," the marshal told them. "I'll be there in a minute."

They sat, but Doc continued to watch Matt as he approached a man who leaned casually against the counter. His dusty clothes told of a long ride in the saddle, his boots scuffed and worn, his hat tattered. At first glance, he didn't look any different from scores of other drifters who sought a few moments' reprieve in the company of an attentive woman and glass of beer. But the simple fact that he had Matt's attention identified him as noteworthy.

"Thought I told you to stay out of Dodge, Roper," the marshal said, his voice soft, but his tone hard.

If he was surprised, the other man didn't show it. Instead, he drew a couple of pulls of his beer, then drawled, "Stayed out, Marshal. Didn't like it. Missed yer hospitality."

"You got about three minutes to walk out those doors, get back on your horse, and leave town."

Slowly, Roper turned, leaving his beer on the counter and letting his arms hang loose by his side. Doc felt the clench in his chest. He'd seen this scene far too often. It meant someone was going to need his services, and he prayed it wasn't Matt.

"Don't be a fool, Roper," Matt warned, his hands resting on the buckle of his gun belt.

"I ain't the fool, Dillon. That's what they'll be sayin' about you in a few more seconds." He grinned maliciously.

Matt didn't respond, and Doc knew that he had resigned himself to the inevitable. Instantly, the crowd cleared, scattering chairs in their haste to get out of the line of fire.

Doc knew it was coming, but he could do no more than suck in a breath before the gunman grabbed for his iron. The shots sounded, three in quick succession, and when the smoke cleared, Roper lay sprawled on the floor, blood splattered across his chest, the final breath of life wheezing from his lungs.

Doc blinked a couple of times, took a breath, and narrowed his eyes to focus solely on the marshal, scanning up and down the long body in search of any signs of injury. After a moment, Matt replaced his Colt in the holster and leaned back, shoulders relaxing. Then he stepped forward to kick the fallen man's gun away, just in case. Seeing no indication that the marshal was hit, Doc scrambled over to the gunman who had indeed ended up the fool, thinking he could best Matt Dillon. It didn't take a trained eye to know that the three holes drilled directly through his chest had done their job well. Glazed eyes stared up at nothing.

"He's dead," he told Matt, figuring the marshal already knew that. The slump of those broad shoulders telegraphed a burden that only grew heavier with each life the lawman was forced to take.

"Yeah." Matt turned to a couple of gaping spectators. "You men take him over to Percy Crump's."

Without hesitation, they nodded and gathered up the remains of Roscoe Roper. Doc shook his head in regret for both a life lost and for one more chip out of his friend's soul. As he turned back to see Cantrell's reaction, he was puzzled by the expression on the other man's face, a mixture of admiration, concern, and fear.

"He was notified, Matt," Cantrell said. "Shoulda listened to ya'."

"Yeah."

"Who was he?"

The marshal bit at his lower lip for a minute. "Gunslinger. Came into town a couple of days ago making trouble. I told him to get out and not come back, but – " A jerk of his chin ended the explanation.

Cantrell shook his head, an admiring smile on his lips. "You shore gotten faster since we wuz younguns. Don't figure they're many could shade ya' now."

Matt managed a slight smile. "Except you, maybe."

"You figure Glenn here could outdraw you, Mister Dillon?" Chester asked incredulously.

Tilting his head toward his old friend, Matt said, "Back then Glenn could shoot a spine off a cactus at thirty yards."

Cantrell shook his head. "Cactus wasn't shootin' back."

Doc watched Matt shrug casually, but he had known the young lawman long enough to see the tension beneath the nonchalance. "Let's have that beer, now," the marshal said, pushing his hat back on his head.

Just as they sat, the attention of every man in the place suddenly focused on one common sight.

Kitty Russell flowed down the staircase, wearing a dress that Doc had seen before, one that showed off her assets – and always kept Matt's eyes glued to her from the minute she appeared to the time she left. He noted with a bite of irritation that Matt wasn't the only one interested in that dress. Glenn Cantrell's dark eyes flashed as he took in the striking woman approaching their table. Doc watched as the marshal's old friend elbowed him in the ribs and lifted a brow.

"Boy, oh boy. Would ya' look at that?"

Swishing his mustache, Doc slid a glance to check out Matt's expression, wondering just how far the old friendship went. As he expected, the marshal's jaw tightened, not much, but Adams knew him well enough to notice.

As Kitty neared, Matt stood and removed his hat. The others followed suit, Cantrell grinning at her, oblivious to his friend's unease.

"Hello, Matt," she greeted, her smile warm and intimate as it always was when she saw the marshal. Doc wondered if she realized just how clearly she telegraphed her feelings. The connection between the two practically sizzled.

"Hello, Kitty," Dillon answered, pulling out a chair next to his. Doc held back a chuckle as he noted that the marshal happened to place himself between Cantrell and her.

"Kitty, huh?" Cantrell noted, standing himself. "You gonna introduce me to th' lady, Matt, or do I have ta' do it myself?"

Smoothly shaking off any visible reluctance – although Doc could still tell it was there – Dillon placed a possessive hand on Kitty's back, but before he could make any introduction, she extended her hand toward Cantrell.

"I'm Kitty Russell."

"Well, now, Kitty Russell, I'm right please ta' make yer acquaintance. Name's Cantrell. Glenn Cantrell, and Matt didn't warn me I'd be meetin' the most beautiful woman in town."

Her laugh was deep and genuine, but Doc could see that Kitty hadn't bought Cantrell's line. He thought he heard her grunt a bit when Matt tugged her closer against him.

"You work here, do ya', Kitty?" Glenn asked, his eyes lingering on the generous view of her cleavage.

Before she could answer, Matt said, his voice careful, "Kitty _owns _the Long Branch, Glenn."

The dark eyes widened in genuine surprise. "Owns it? Well, now, that's pretty impressive." Then he narrowed his eyes at the protective arm the marshal held around Kitty. "Yes," he breathed, shaking his head. "Pretty impressive."

Matt's stance relaxed slightly, and he allowed a smile to hint about his lips. "How about a round of beers for everyone, Sam?" he asked the bartender, releasing his hold on Kitty and waiting until she sat before he eased into the chair between Cantrell's and hers.

When they were all seated, Doc carefully blew out the breath he didn't realize he had been holding. Even though Cantrell had obviously seen his share of trouble, he didn't figure he wanted to tangle with Matt Dillon, whatever their shared past held. Still, he frowned a bit at the quick, hungry glance the marshal's old friend slid toward Kitty.

"Say," Doc began, his voice calculating, "I'll bet you could tell a few good stories on ol' Matt, here."

The marshal winced. "Now, Doc – "

But Cantrell lifted a brow and grinned. "Come ta' think of it – "

**TBC**


	4. Chapter 3: Who Was Your First?

**Defend Me from My Friends**

**Chapter Three: Who Was Your First?**

**POV: Kitty**

_My appreciation to LadyofDodge for allowing me to refer to Jazziel, a character she created in another story._

Kitty shook her head as Glenn Cantrell spun yarn after yarn of their youthful exploits, unable to keep from smiling as she watched Matt flush redder with each revelation his old friend shared. Even though she doubted the complete veracity of most of the tales, she still could not help but be drawn to the adventures of a young Matt Dillon. Over the years, Matt had shared bits and pieces of his youth with her, usually during a few rare moments of vulnerability after they had shared their love in the privacy of her room, but there were large clouds of mystery still about him, and she yearned to hear more that would fill in the blanks about how an apparently undisciplined youth had somehow evolved into the upstanding, noble man they all knew.

"He wuz a gangly fella, not as solid as he is now, but he stirred up a good bit of interest among the gals every place we landed." Cantrell raised a brow suggestively. "I think they all wanted to be the one to – _initiate_ him, so to speak."

Despite her amusement with Cantrell's tales, Kitty found herself more than a little uncomfortable with the idea of Matt and another woman, even if it was a much younger and less experienced Matt whose first youthful taste of pleasure came at the ministrations of a common whore. What did it matter, she reminded herself. Yet, somehow, it did.

"Glenn," Matt warned, his cheeks flaming red, his eyes glaring.

His old friend laughed, but it wasn't as easy as before once he got a good look at the marshal's expression. "Well, they tried, anyway," he added hastily, "but none of 'em ever got ennywhere. Matt was a little more, uh, _particular _than th' rest of us, I s'pose."

It was silly, she knew, but Kitty felt relief flood her heart. She knew Matt was certainly not inexperienced before they met. And she – well, she'd rather not think about _her_ prior experiences. Matt never held those against her, but sometimes she wondered what it would have been like to lose her own innocence at his loving touch instead of –

"What brings you to Dodge, Glenn?" Matt asked suddenly, his intentions transparent.

Amusement fell from Cantrell's face, and he sat up straighter. "Well, that's somethin' I figure you and me might talk about in private." He threw a questioning glance toward Kitty and added, "If we could."

Smoothly, she looked at Matt and nodded toward the closed door to her office. His gaze didn't leave hers, and she fancied that she saw him remembering other times they had stolen away to that office, times that didn't include anyone other than themselves.

"Okay," he agreed finally, breaking their mutual memories with obvious reluctance. Sighing, he pushed up from the table. "Thanks, Kitty. Glenn?"

Taking his cue, the other man also rose and, picked up the saddlebag he had brought into the saloon, and nodded to his hostess. "Mighty grateful, ma'am," he offered, touching a finger to the brim of his hat.

As the two men disappeared behind the door, Kitty took a few seconds to contemplate this latest old friend of Matt's. From her experience with those, she had decided that Matt was just about the only one who had escaped the temptations of those wild days – and least in the long run. She hoped Glenn Cantrell had, too, but something about the man touched an uneasy nerve.

A half hour later, she was wiping the bar when they emerged, Cantrell empty-handed, smiling and jovial, Matt reserved and contemplative. She frowned, recognizing the expression furrowing that handsome brow.

"Thank you, ma'am, for your hospitality," Glenn told her. "Guess I'd better head ta bed 'fore I git myseff into more trouble."

"Good night," she said graciously. After all, he was a friend of Matt's – despite the obvious differences between the two men.

Matt stepped up behind him, any previous irritation unapparent. "I'll see you tomorrow, Glenn."

"Sure." With one last glance her way, Cantrell headed out the doors. Kitty attributed the lust in his eyes to liquor, but decided Glenn Cantrell would bear careful watching, not that she would mention it to Matt. He had enough former friends who brought trouble. It was a miracle he'd escaped from that life and gotten on the right side of the law. But as soon as she had the thought, she realized that right had been deep inside Matt Dillon's character from birth, no matter what detours he'd made on his way there.

"Matt – " she began.

But he re-set his hat on his head and said, "I guess I'd better be doing my rounds."

She dropped it, for the moment at least, especially when she saw the wince, read the stiffness in his stance, and decided that his muscles needed a little relaxing before bedtime.

"I'll walk you to the door," she volunteered, ignoring Doc's knowing smirk.

The smile Matt gave her made her forget about the physician's teasing. "Okay."

They paused at the swinging doors, and Kitty darted a look back to make sure no one could hear her offer. "Come on back by after your rounds, Cowboy. I'll treat you to – a drink."

The interest that sparkled in his eyes excited her. So did the low, sensuous tone his voice assumed. "A drink, huh?"

"Or two."

He drew in a quick breath at the thinly disguised come on, and she had a fleeting thought that he might actually kiss her right there in front of everyone. But even as he moved forward he caught himself, and she had to be satisfied with the heat in those beautiful eyes and the unconscious way he licked his lips.

"I'll, uh, I'll see you later, Kitty," he promised, nodding and touching his hat before he stepped out into the street.

Yes he would see her later, she decided. He would, indeed.

XXXX

Kitty drew in a deep, satisfied breath and snuggled against the warm body that lay next to her, burrowing her head against the broad chest, draping her arm across the hard stomach. Already half asleep, she let her fading thoughts linger on what Glenn Cantrell had told them that afternoon, how he painted a picture of a young man, listing toward the wrong side of the law, aimless and searching. But underneath the wild tales, she also imagined an inner goodness, a soul that treasured life and ached for justice, even as he tried to find it.

She figured that she probably knew more about Matt Dillon than anyone else, but occasionally, she wondered how much he actually _wanted_ her to know, wondered what he had never shared with her, even though they had shared almost everything with each other – certainly everything physical. Through the years, she had heard things as he twisted restlessly in sleep, things that no one should ever have to hear, things that no man should ever have to experience. She didn't think he realized how much she knew, even when he jolted up in bed, a cry on his lips, sweat running down his face, soaking his chest, and she eased him back down, soothing him with gentle words and tender touches.

More awake now, she thought back to Cantrell's comment about the women wanting to "initiate" Matt, and she knew she had to ask, even though she wasn't sure she wanted to hear the answer. "Matt?" she asked quietly, her fingers toying with the light spread of hair across his chest.

"Mmm?"

"Who was your first?"

"Huh?"

"Your first – you know. Who was it?"

He grunted slightly as he shifted to look down at her. "I'm not sure what you – "

"Woman. Your first woman. You know who my first – man was."

A long pause answered her. Then he breathed out softly, "Cole Yankton."

"Um hmm. You know my secrets. Seems only fair I know yours." It was meant as a tease, but she figured he heard the seriousness behind her words. "Glenn Cantrell was saying that there were lots of women who wanted to – "

"It wasn't one of Cantrell's – well, one of his – "

"It would be okay if it was," she allowed, although she didn't really feel that way. "After all, it was a long time ago."

"It _was_ a long time ago, Kitty. And I wasn't with Glenn at the time. I was giving honest work a go as a drover."

"A drover? You?"

He laughed. "I figured out pretty fast that wasn't the life for me."

"How long ago was it?" Curiosity pushed through her deference.

He pushed himself up against the bed frame, urging her along with him so that her head lay on his shoulder as he let his long fingers trail up and down her smooth back. After a moment, he sighed. "Seventeen years."

"You were sixteen, then."

"Barely." He grinned. "It was my birthday."

"Your birthday?"

"Umm hmm."

"Some present."

"Yeah." From the wistful sound of his voice, she surmised it really had been quite a present.

Hesitantly, she asked, "Was she – was she a – "

He shook his head. "No. She worked in a cantina, but she wasn't – I wouldn't have – " He stopped abruptly. "I didn't mean – "

But she shook her head, knowing what he was saying. "She was a Mexican girl, then?" Somehow that surprised her, even though she knew Matt grew up in Texas.

"Jazziel," he remembered, smiling slightly.

She tried to soften the sharp pang in her stomach, knowing she had no right at all to be jealous. "Were you her – first, too?"

"No. She was eighteen." A smile curved his lips. "An older woman."

Kitty smiled with him.

"But I don't think she was all that experienced, either. Still she sure knew a lot more than I did." He chuckled at a memory. "Which didn't take much."

"I happen to know you're a quick study, Marshal," Kitty allowed. "I'm sure you caught on fast."

The chuckle grew to a rueful laugh. "Fast is right."

Kitty laughed with him, envisioning a gangly, eager, and – she was certain – shy teenager experiencing the pleasures of the body for the first time. She suddenly wished she had been that Mexican girl, wished that instead of Cole Yankton, Matt Dillon had been the man to bring her the first fruits of love.

But maybe she really didn't. After all, even though they were both still young when they met, they had seen enough of the world to be secure in their abilities and enter into a relationship that did not rely solely on physical intimacy – although that part was pretty damn good, nevertheless.

"She was patient," he said softly. "And kind. And she, uh, she taught me a few things."

Intrigued, Kitty asked, "What kinds of things?"

He reached down to let his long fingers brush between her legs, and she sucked in a sudden breath as he slid between her creamy folds, still slick from their earlier lovemaking, thumb just barely flicking across the hard bundle of nerves. She arched toward him, the electric sensations shooting through her. Letting his two middle fingers probe deeper, he bent to take a distended nipple gently between his teeth even while his thumb applied more pressure to its sole focus. Moaning, she writhed beneath his touch, her body screaming for more, and he gave her more until she threw her head back, seizing with the release.

Heart pounding, she sucked in deep breaths until she felt she could move again, and let her eyes flutter open to find his expression a sensual mixture of passion and pride. "Oh," she groaned, "I will be eternally grateful to Jazziel."

Matt chuckled. "You know, though," he said, turning them so that he knelt over her, "I've learned a few _more _things since then."

"You have?" she murmured.

"Uh huh." Flashing that mischievous grin that she loved so much, he asked, "Want me to show you?"

She most certainly did.

**TBC**


	5. Chapter 4: More Wild Oats

**Defend Me from My Friends**

**Chapter Four: More Wild Oats**

**POV: Matt**

In the quiet of early morning Matt lay awake gazing into the lightening gray that was gradually bringing the walls and furniture of Kitty's room into clarity. She still slept, her head pillowed on his chest, the soft breaths from her mouth brushing across his skin. And in the security of that intimate moment, he shook his head at his own foolishness. There was no other word to describe what he felt last night. Jealousy. Of all things. Something Matt Dillon had seldom – if ever – truly experienced.

In the early days of his relationship with Kitty, they had both danced around the realization that something strong, something inescapable drew them together. He had taken other women to supper, she had sat and taken drinks with other men. No explanations offered. No questions asked. But somewhere along the way, he stopped asking those other women to supper and she stopped sitting with those other men, and Matt knew that for several years now his hat was the only one that ever hung on the peg inside her door.

It wasn't that he didn't trust Kitty. He trusted her with his life – and more importantly, with his heart. So why did he act so foolish in front of Glenn, making sure he was between Kitty and his former partner, tugging her against him in a blatant statement of possession? He laughed silently at that. No one could ever possess Kitty Russell – that was for sure. The obvious answer was that he didn't trust Glenn Cantrell. Despite their mutual, youthful experiences, Matt knew what kind of man Glenn had been, knew what kind of man he probably became without the fortuitous guiding hand the law had given another wild youth.

His thoughts flickered back over the tale Glenn had spun there in Kitty's office.

"_You gonna tell me what you're doin' here, Glenn?" Matt had asked as soon as the door closed, figuring he'd given his old friend plenty of time to catch up on old times._

_Glenn smiled. "You always could see right through folks, Matt," he allowed. "And you're right, I did come for a reason. You remember Harp McLeod?"_

"_Harp – yeah, I do. Skinny fella, tried to grow a mustache but it never filled in."_

"_That's him."_

"_How's he doing?"_

_Cantrell's smile faded. "Well, not so good now. He's dead."_

"_Dead?"_

"_Slid a Queen of Hearts outta his sleeve on th' wrong man up in Deadwood a few months back."_

"_Sorry to hear that," Matt said, although not at all surprised. "I don't figure you came all the way to Dodge just to tell me, though."_

"_No. Came ta' give ya' somethin'." He dug into the saddlebag he had not let out of his sight since they had gone to the Long Branch. "You sure it's safe in here?" he asked, glancing around nervously._

_Matt raised one eyebrow in curiosity. "Sure."_

_Nodding, Cantrell dropped the saddlebag on a table and opened the flap, spreading it to reveal bulging bundles of cash, hundreds of greenback bills wrapped together in uniform groups. Immediately, Matt raised his eyes to meet the other man's._

"_Where'd this come from, Glenn?" he asked, his instincts automatically sharp._

"_Harp."_

"_Harp?" When Glenn simply nodded, Matt sighed and said, "Maybe you'd better explain."_

_Cantrell dragged a chair to the table and sat in it, laying his hat over the saddlebag and running a hand through his hair. "Seems ol' Harp got into the silver business a few years back. Bought hisself a share in a mine somewhere near Comstock. Told me about it, but I never figured it would pay off nothin'."_

"_Harp always was a bit of a gambler," Matt remembered, lowering his body into a chair opposite Cantrell's._

"_Anyway, 'couple of weeks ago I got this here letter from some fancy Nevada lawyer sayin' Harp wuz dead, and he'd left his old friends somethin'. Turns out that somethin' wuz a heap of money he'd got from sellin' his share of that mine."_

"_How much?"_

"_Nigh on ta' ten thousand dollars." Cantrell's eyes widened as he spoke, emphasizing the amount._

_Matt couldn't help but be impressed. "You're right, Glenn. That's a heap of money."_

_His old friend's grin broadened. "Here's th' thing, though. It ain't all mine."_

"_No?"_

"_Harp left a last will and testament, can you believe that? Divided up the money with th' folks he said meant th' most to him. His old friends, see? Turns out you and me's the only ones left."_

"_Us?"_

"_Us. That there in thet saddlebag, Matt, is your share."_

_Normally unflappable, the marshal felt his jaw drop. "My share?"_

"_Five thousand dollars."_

_Stunned, Matt stared at Glenn for a long moment, then looked down to stare at the leather bag, bulging with money – his money._

"_I'm plannin' on takin' my share on ta' San Francisco in a few days, but I sure would appreciate you helpin' me keep it safe until then."_

"_We have a good bank in town – " Matt started, but Cantrell winced._

"_Ain't too fond of banks. Don't know when they might get robbed, ya' know?" he said, his grin tight. Nodding toward the small safe against the wall, he asked, "What about here? Won't nobody suspect a saloon to keep that much in cash, would they? And you could keep your share in there, too, at least until you figure what you might do with it."_

_The sensation of hairs prickling at the back of his neck was uncomfortably familiar to Matt. He watched Glenn for a long moment until his old partner shrugged and shook his head._

"_Nevermind. I see ya' ain't too keen on that – "_

"_No, it's all right. I'm sure Kitty won't mind if we keep the money here, for a while, anyway."_

"_Well, that's fine, then. Just fine." He slapped Matt on the shoulder and watched while the lawman stood to open the iron black safe. _

Matt turned Glenn's story over uneasily in his mind. Maybe he was just too used to being poor to think about what he could do with five thousand dollars. Maybe not.

Then he thought about Glenn's re-telling of that terrible September day at Chickamauga, swallowing as the old, but familiar sharp tug of guilt twisted through him. He should have told Glenn long ago, even if he wasn't sure about things. He still should have told him.

_I sure did owe him, _Glenn had told Chester and Doc_. Still do, I figure._

A heavy sigh lifted his chest. If Glenn only knew.

"Matt?" the sleepy, slurred voice half-protested the movement.

Shrugging off the complications his brain couldn't untangle anyway, he pressed a kiss into her hair. "Shh. Sleep."

"Don't wanna," she murmured, pushing up to sit next to him. "Tell me what's bothering you."

He pressed his lips together in fond irritation. She always knew. "It may be nothing."

"It may be _something_," she countered. "Usually is when you look like that."

Lifting long fingers, he brushed a flame of hair from her face. "Look like what?"

She leaned in, kissing him softly. "Like you are trying to fit together a puzzle that's missing some pieces."

He sighed, giving in to his need to share some of the burden, even though he had never thought it was fair to her. But he ended up doing it almost every time. Briefly, he recounted his conversation with Glenn in Kitty's office, his suspicions growing uncomfortably more secure with each word.

"Money from a silver mine?" Kitty asked, her own voice dubious. It merely confirmed what he feared.

"Yeah."

She smiled gently, fingering the hair that trailed down his stomach. "And what are you _really_ thinking?"

"That bank over in Pueblo," Matt said, voice heavy.

"The one that got robbed last month?"

"Yeah. Robbers got away with – "

"Ten thousand dollars," she finished. "And you think the money Glenn brought is –"

"I think it might be, Kitty."

"Oh, Matt."

"What safer way to hide money than in the keeping of a United States Marshal?"

She smiled. "Except he chose the wrong marshal."

"I'll telegraph the sheriff in Pueblo. Get a description of the robbers."

"Why don't you just turn over the money?"

"I need proof. There's a chance he's telling me the truth."

But her expression revealed her doubt, and he knew it mirrored his own. "Is there something else, Matt?" she asked.

He swore he could smell gunpowder for a second. "What?"

"More than just – well, you and Glenn go way back. I can understand you not wanting to believe he would do something against the law – "

He chuckled. "I don't have a problem believing that, Kitty. Glenn and I did plenty against – well, I guess you should be glad my oat-sowing days are over."

She shook her head, her eyes hooded, her tone seductive. "Oh, I think maybe you underestimate me. I'm perfectly happy for you to sow more wild oats, as long as you sow them right here with me."

Then he forgot about Glenn Cantrell and silver mines and even debts owed as she pulled him close, her breasts soft against his stomach, her lips hot across his chest, her hands torturous around his renewed arousal. And the oats that they both sowed the rest of the night were wild, indeed.

**TBC**


	6. Chapter 5: No Straighter, No Narrower

**Defend Me from My Friends**

**Chapter Five: No Straighter, No Narrower**

**POV: Glenn Cantrell**

Glenn Cantrell sat sullenly at a table as far back as he could get at the Lady Gay Saloon, swirling the last few swigs of whiskey left in the bottle he had bought an hour before. As the smoky liquid sloshed back and forth, he contemplated his recent fortunes and misfortunes. Who would have thought Matt Dillon would have ended up a damn lawman? But if Cantrell were truthful with himself, he had seen the honest streak in the teenage incarnation of his friend. He just never figured it would have overcome the wildness of an unstructured youth and premature manhood.

Still, five thousand dollars was a lot of money, and he bet even a U.S. Marshal didn't make enough to keep him from being tempted by such a windfall. As he contemplated the chances that his old friend had accepted his explanation without question, a wide shadow fell across the table. He knew before he looked up who he would see, and his stomach lurched with the realization. Tossing back a glassful of whiskey, he pursed his lips and greeted, "Layton."

"Good ta' see you didn't forgit me." Jake Layton was not tall, but he made up for it in thickness, his barrel chest and amble belly presenting a picture of brute strength. Glenn knew that to be an accurate picture.

"Where ya' bin, Cantrell?" Layton asked, eyes narrow. Glenn couldn't see his hand, but knew for certain it rested on his Colt .44.

"I bin layin' low, Jake," Cantrell reasoned, forcing his voice to stay steady. "Couldn't take a chance on somebody wonderin' about us havin' such a heap of money."

"See, the problem is_ I_ was wonderin' about it, Glenn. Thought we was all ridin' together on this." He sucked air through his teeth and shook his head.

Cantrell smiled easily. "Sure we are, Jake. 'Course we are. It's just that when that posse come up on us other side of Las Amigas we all scattered. I figured you'd show up, so I decided to hold up somewheres and wait for ya'."

Layton's smile was dubious. "You figured that, did ya?"

"Sure."

"Arright. Where's the money, then?"

"I got it all locked up safe and sound," Glenn assured him.

"I don't figure it's in the Dodge Bank."

"No."

'Where is it?"

Cantrell tried not to squirm, but he knew he wasn't successful. "Don't ya trust me, Jake?"

"No." He heard the cock of a gun.

"It's here in Dodge, I swear. Who better to keep an eye on ten grand than a U.S. marshal?"

It might have been worth the earlier bluff just to see Layton's double take. "The hell you say," he gaped. "You gave our money to the_ law_?"

"He don't know where it come from, Jake," Glenn said. "Thinks it's from an old friend who struck it rich in silver."

"Ain't nobody gonna believe – wait a minute. You ain't talkin' about _Matt Dillon_?"

It was Glenn's turn to be surprised. "You know Matt?"

"_Matt?_"

"We, uh, rode together when we was young."

"And yer tellin' me Dillon's just keepin' all that money for you without askin' questions?"

"Well – "

"You are plumb crazy, boy," Layton accused. "Lawmen don't come no straighter or no narrower than Matt Dillon. I bin hearin' things about him. He ain't gonna let you git that money back without checkin' on it."

"I'm gonna split some of it with him," Cantrell decided.

"I jes' told ya' he's a straight arrow. You got us in a heap of mess, Cantrell."

"No, Jake," Glenn tried to assure him. "I took care of – "

"Yer gonna git that money, and yer gonna git it tonight."

Wiping sweaty palms on his grimy jeans, Glenn protested, "I can't – I mean, he ain't actually got it."

"What?"

"But I can get it, Jake. I can get it. I got an idea."

Layton's eyes narrowed. "I'm listenin'."

**XXX**

He had been drinking steadily since Layton left him, making his way from saloon to saloon, eventually and inevitably ending up at the very establishment destined to see the triumph or defeat of their plans. The Long Branch was jumping as usual when he pushed his way unsteadily through the swinging doors, angling for and making a table near the back.

He was halfway through a bottle of rye when she emerged from the office, her conservative dress unable to mask the enticing figure that lay beneath it. He felt the surge of arousal at the pit of his belly, not deterred by the significant amount of alcohol he had consumed.

Even though it was clear by the way Matt eyed Kitty Russell that he had personal expectations of her, Glenn couldn't help but be intrigued by the fiery-haired beauty. And a beauty she was, even if she was a whore. Sure, Glenn reasoned, she owned the place, but what woman who owned a saloon wasn't a whore, or at least hadn't been one at first? He wondered if Matt was her only customer now or if she took on entertainers when he wasn't available. He'd tread lightly, but he'd tread. She was too tempting not to.

He lingered late, almost to closing time, outlasting the gamblers and the drifters and the alcoholics who made the saloon their evening's sole destination. Finally, as Kitty finished wiping down the bar, and the bartender disappeared into the cellar to return unused bottles, he decided he couldn't stand it any longer. He had watched her all night, the ache in his body intensifying with each smile, each laugh, each sensual movement.

Finally, with the last customer stumbling out the doors, he rose, catching her from behind and pressing his lips, wet and sloppy, against her neck. Immediately, she stiffened and pushed against him, but he held on, turning her in his arms and covering her protesting mouth with his, on fire as her breasts burned against his chest, his erection throbbing into her pelvis. Confident that she wanted him as much as he wanted her, he pulled back, eager to see the desire in her eyes. Instead he saw her right hand flying toward his face, too quickly for any reaction other than closing his eyes.

The slap was hard, harder than he anticipated, its sharp sting throbbing across his cheek. For a brief moment, fury burned through him, but temperance spawned by common sense doused it, and he sobered with the realization of what he had almost done. Hand touching his reddened flesh, he steadied his breathing and dropped his gaze from her flashing eyes.

"Guess I deserved that." Braving a glance up, he saw that her expression remained unforgiving, her hand still raised as if she might not be finished using it. "Usually kin hold my liquor better," he admitted, and it was the truth. What a fool he was, but even Matt couldn't fault him for taste.

After a long beat, the tight skin around her eyes relaxed just a fraction, and she lowered her hand. "I think you'd better go on back to your room and sleep it off," she suggested coldly.

"I reckon I'd better." He was still dangerously aroused by her anger, her spirit, but he knew that could only lead to disaster – after a final few minutes of glory.

Her voice had softened a bit with her next words. "I think maybe Matt doesn't need to hear about this."

Glenn was nodding when the voice interrupted from the door.

"Hear about what?"

His blood ran cold as he slowly turned. Matt Dillon stood towering over them, hat pulled down low over his eyes, hands loose at his sides, slight smile completely incongruous with the flinty steel of his gaze.

Glenn almost caved in right there, almost unloaded the whole sordid story in front of his old friend – a United States marshal. But before he could form the first word of confession, Kitty stepped smoothly between them, placing a hand gently on Dillon's forearm.

"Nothing important. Glenn was just headed back to the Dodge House." She cut a sideways glance at him. "Weren't you?"

Sobering quickly, Cantrell agreed. "Yes, ma'am. I sure was." With deliberate motions, he scooped his hat from the floor and nodded toward her. "Night, Miss Russell," he offered, then added, "Matt." He stepped quickly around the huge lawman, praying that his way wouldn't suddenly be blocked. It wasn't, and as he pushed through the doors he heard the beginning of the conversation behind him.

"What went on here?" Dillon asked, his tone both solicitous and suspicious.

"Nothing."

"Kitty – "

"Glenn just had a little too much to drink," she conceded. Cantrell winced in anticipation of tomorrow's conversation with the marshal.

"Did he – "

"No," she said, her voice surprisingly convincing. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" he asked again, and Cantrell knew for certain it wasn't the first time he had posed the question to her.

"How about a nightcap?" Kitty's voice grew sultry and inviting. Not for the first time, Glenn considered Matt Dillon a damn lucky man.

Pausing on the boards for one more beat, he heard their footsteps, one set solid and strong, the other light and easy, the sound rising from the stairs and disappearing behind doors Cantrell figured he'd never open himself. Cursing, he stumbled across the street, damning Layton for finding him, damning Kitty Russell for being beautiful, and damning Matt Dillon for saving his life all those years back.

**TBC**


	7. Chapter 6: The Other Man

**Defend Me from My Friends**

**Chapter Six: The Other Man**

**POV: Chester**

Chester peered over the swinging doors of the Lady Gay Saloon, wide-eyed, watching as Matt Dillon stood in the middle of the room, boots planted wide apart on the gritty floor, thumbs hooked over his gun belt, eyes hard and flashing just under the low brim of his Stetson. The two grubby drifters whose brawl had prompted Chester to interrupt the marshal's evening with Miss Kitty stood slumped-shouldered on either side of him, their whiskered faces still glowering at each other despite the considerably large presence of the law.

"What's going on here?" Dillon demanded, voice hard and commanding, his anger poorly contained.

Chester winced, pondering what his tentative knock had disturbed. He had spent an anxious few seconds, listening for any sound on the other side of Miss Kitty's door before he received a muffled, curt acknowledgment. The marshal emerged several minutes later, hat in his hand, scowl on his face. Chester didn't figure he blamed him any. A woman as pretty and nice as Miss Kitty would be hard to leave.

It wasn't the first time he had interrupted them. Despite being a bit naïve himself, Chester had a fair idea that they didn't spend their time playing cards when Mr. Dillon visited her, but, being a gentleman, he had never mentioned it, and Mr. Dillon, being a gentleman as well, had never volunteered anything.

Dillon's jaw muscles worked, and Chester figured these two wouldn't get much leeway from the law tonight.

It hadn't taken long to subdue the combatants. By the time he and Mister Dillon reached the doors of the saloon, the disagreement between the drifters had erupted into an all-out fracas, with cowboys and drifters alike throwing punches, bottles, chairs, and tables.

As he expected, Mister Dillon did not hesitate to wade into the melee, yelling, "Break it up!" as he scattered them.

Most of the scrappers – those natives familiar with the Dodge marshal – fell back with the order, but two men were so absorbed in their fight that they didn't pay any attention to the warning. Dillon stepped between them, tearing them apart and slamming them back to splinter tables and the few remaining intact chairs.

Dazed, but persistent, the two instigators staggered to their feet, separated only by Dillon's solid frame. Chester saw the marshal unconsciously flex his left hand and noticed a smear of blood across the knuckles.

"Seems a man cain't offer nobody no drank ennymore." The twangy nasal of the shorter of the two brawlers growled, bringing Chester's attention back.

"I done tole ya I ain't askin' fer nothin' and ain't takin' nothin'," the other man returned, swinging wildly toward his opponent.

But his intended punch stopped abruptly when it slammed into the solid wall of muscle that was Matt Dillon's chest; then his entire body flew backwards with the force of a powerful backhand. The other man apparently had a change of heart and lunged in defense of his former opponent. Dillon spun and drew at the same time, twirling the Colt in his hand to bring the butt of it down onto the attacker's head. The man dropped to the grimy barroom floor, out cold. Chester shook his head. Some fools just never learned.

Dillon jerked his head, indicating the prostrate figures sprawled in the dirt. "Chester, get them over to the jail, will ya'?" Looking up at the subdued crowd, he ordered, "The rest of you head home. If I have to come back for you, you'll spend the rest of your night in jail."

The few who could still walk nodded obediently and helped their companions out the door, heeding the formidable lawman's threat.

"Yes, sir." He paused, peering down at them. "Who d'ya reckon they are, Mister Dillon? I ain't never seen 'em around here before, and most of the time – "

Dillon shook his head. "Don't know." Then he rubbed at the torn knuckles. "Listen, I'll be at –" But he stopped and lowered his voice so that only Chester could hear. "You, uh, you know where I'll be if you need me."

"Yes, sir," Chester acknowledged, suppressing a grin as the marshal headed hastily back toward the Long Branch.

But the long strides had taken the lawman only halfway across the street before Chester heard Barney call out to Dillon, who stopped, a sigh lifting his shoulders before he turned around.

"Marshal?" Barney called again.

Dillon regarded the telegraph operator impatiently. "What is it, Barney?"

The old man extended a yellow slip of paper toward him. "Got an answer to that wire you sent earlier."

The irritation vanished from Dillon's face as he took the telegram and scanned it quickly, pressing his lips together after only a few seconds. Chester peered up at him, curious.

"Bad news?" he ventured, but Dillon didn't answer. Instead, he let out a heavy breath, then nodded at Barney and stuffed the paper in his shirt pocket.

Walking back to the Lady Gay, he pulled over two of the ambulatory cowboys who had been only on the periphery of the fight. "You boys want to earn your way out of trouble?" he asked.

They nodded eagerly.

"Take those two over to the jail and wait 'till either Chester or I get back over there."

"Yes, sir!" they agreed, happy both to be redeemed and to be given the marshal's trust.

"Don't leave, you understand?"

"Yes, Marshal," they both promised.

Turning back, he flicked a hand toward the Dodge House. "Come on with me, Chester," he said, already headed that way, not waiting for his assistant to catch up to his long gait.

Dillon's large frame practically crashed through the doors of Dodge's best hotel, striding past a startled clerk. He took the steep stairs two at a time, the urgency in his step triggering alarms in Chester's imagination. Sliding to a stop in front of the third door to the right, the marshal banged on the painted wood. "Cantrell!" he yelled. "Open up!"

With no answer, even after a full minute of pounding, Dillon pressed his lips together in frustration and turned, dropping back down the steps as quickly as he had taken them.

"Marshal," Howie asked timidly as they reached the first floor again, "are you looking for Mister Cantrell?"

Stopping so suddenly that Chester almost slammed into the broad back, Dillon turned to the clerk and demanded, "Where is he?"

Gulping, Howie adjusted his glasses and stammered, "He – he left – about a half hour ago."

"Did he say where he was going?"

"No. He and the other man – "

"_Other _man?" Dillon leaned forward, bracing his hands on the counter.

Howie nodded, emboldened by the marshal's interest in what he knew.

"Who was he?"

"I've never seen him before, Marshal."

"Which way did they go?"

"Looked like they were headed toward the Long Branch. I told 'em it would be closed by now, but –"

Before Howie could finish, Dillon was already out the door, Chester scrambling behind him. "Chester!" he barked over his shoulder, never breaking stride. "Check on those drifters. I'll be back later."

"Yes, sir," he replied, but the marshal wasn't waiting for a response.

The glow of street lamps reflected off the tan vest until those broad shoulders disappeared into the side alley that led to Miss Kitty's office. Chester stood for another moment, pondering what had worried the marshal so. Then he shook his head and turned toward the jail.

He had just stepped onto the boardwalk when he heard the gunshot.

**TBC**


	8. Chapter 7: Just One More Time

**Defend Me from My Friends**

**Chapter Seven: Just One More Time**

**POV: Kitty**

Kitty stretched wearily as she leaned forward to blow out the lamp, eager for the promised succor of Matt's arms. Their nightcap inconveniently interrupted by Chester's embarrassed knock and announcement that a rowdy brawl had broken out at the Lady Gay, he promised to return as soon as he could. He might already be waiting for her upstairs, his long, beautiful, and very male body hers for the loving. A smile curved her lips, desire warmed her breasts and tingled in her center at the thought.

She had used the delay created by his ill-timed departure to finish the last of the books, having abandoned them after Glenn Cantrell's sloppy advances and Matt's fortunate arrival. Distracting the big lawman from his suspicions about Cantrell's actions had not been too difficult. At the time of Chester's interruption, they were well past the early intimacies and were in the process of peeling off each other's clothing in between kisses and caresses. After a hoarse acknowledgment to his assistant – without opening the door – Matt had drawn in a few ragged breaths, trying to manage a presentable state and scowling half-heartedly at Kitty as she continued to tempt him.

Reluctantly, though, she sighed at the inevitable. "Go ahead, Matt," she said, pulling her blouse back over the breasts he had just been teasing. The fabric worried her aroused nipples, and she could not help but wish his lips, and not the blouse, were still the cause. "I haven't finished the books for tonight. You go on and come back by the office when you're done." Her voice grew husky, not quite able to resist one more seduction. "We can, um, pick up where we left off."

She watched him swallow, heard him groan, saw him pause in his attempt to pull his trousers back on.

"You're not making this easy, Kitty," he complained.

But she just smiled. "My intent was to do the opposite."

"Oh, you succeeded," he assured her. "You succeeded."

It took another five minutes for him to leave, grumbling as he went about Chester and cowboys and provocative women. She threw him a promising smile and was pleased to see his own warm grin flash back.

"I'll be back," he assured her.

"I'll be here," she returned.

And that's just where she intended to be. Throwing on a simple skirt and blouse, she had slipped downstairs to the books, her keen head for numbers making quick work of the final tallies. Satisfied with that task, she felt her heart beat a little faster in anticipation of being satisfied in a completely different way later.

Just as she turned toward the door that led back into the saloon, she heard the rattle of the outside entrance. Kitty Russell had seen too much, experienced too much, to be flustered. Smoothly, she stepped toward the safe where she kept the derringer Matt had given her a few years earlier. _Just in case_, he had said, and they both held pleasant memories of the subsequent trips out to Spring Creek for her to practice her shooting skills. Most of those excursions ended with both of them practicing _other_ skills, as well.

Before she could reach the black, iron box, though, the door burst open, wood splintering around the lock. Two men stepped inside, their wide shadows looming menacingly against the frame. Unable to suppress a gasp, she nevertheless drew composure around her when she recognized Glenn Cantrell.

"Mister Cantrell, what are you doing here?"

He stared at her, wide-eyed for a moment, as if he had not expected to find her there. And, indeed, she figured that was true.

Somehow, his voice was both polite and threatening at once. "I'd be obliged, Miss Russell, if you'd open that there safe for me."

Eyes narrowed, she hesitated. "The safe?"

"The hell with this," a voice growled behind Cantrell. "Knock her outta the way and let's git goin'."

Fear shot through Kitty's heart as another figure pushed past Glenn, reaching toward her to grab a handful of hair, jerking her head back. "You weren't lyin'. She's a looker, arright. Mebbe we'll bring her with us. A man needs a little recreation now an' then."

"Who the hell are _you_?" she snapped with more fire than she felt.

"Just open the safe, _Miss_ Kitty," Glenn advised, his voice hard, even though his demand sounded almost like a request.

"If this _gentleman_ would release me it would be a little easier."

"Let her go, Layton," Glenn said.

With a snarl, Layton jerked his hand away, pulling some of the curls down with it. "Git to it, then."

Willing her hands not to shake, she twisted the dial automatically, stepping back as the heavy door opened. "Where'd that money come from, Glenn?" she asked. "It's not an inheritance like you told Matt, is it?"

He didn't seem surprised. "Guess ol' Matt told you about that, huh? Maybe a little conversation after – " But he stopped himself and shook his head almost ruefully. "He always wuz the lucky one."

Before she could snatch the derringer, a hammy hand slapped her away, and she stumbled into the wall. Layton rummaged through the safe's contents, grabbing both bags Matt had locked in there. Her face stung from the strike, but she remained silent.

"Lookie here," the outlaw said, pulling out the small gun. "You weren't goin' fer thet, were ya, Missy?"

"Come on, Layton," Glenn urged. "Let's get outta here."

The other man turned, giving Kitty her first good look at him. He was rough looking, with a full face that spread into a natural sneer, his eyes small and black, a jagged scar running from chin to ear on the left side. "We kain't leave her here. She done seen us."

"Matt'll know it's me, anyway, Layton. Don't matter. Leave her."

Layton tucked the bags under his arm and lunged out, snatching Cantrell toward him. "I'm the one calling the shots, here. Don't you fergit that. I say she goes with us. We kin hole up in that ol' cabin 'bout ten miles out until we're ready."

Glenn swallowed, considered for a moment, then nodded. "Okay, okay. She goes. But that's just gonna make Dillon that much more determined to come after us."

"Let him come. That lawman needed killin' a long time ago." He jerked a chin toward Kitty. "You git her. And don't let her holler."

She contemplated her chances of yelling and getting help, but figured Layton wouldn't think twice about breaking her neck. Instead, as Glenn took her arm and guided her after the other man, she looked desperately for some clue to leave, some way to let Matt know something had happened. But her plan was made moot only a second later when a tall figure darkened the door.

"What's going on here?"

Relief flooded Kitty's chest with the strong, familiar voice. "Matt!"

Instantly, the hard barrel of a pistol pressed against her temple as Layton grabbed her and pulled her against him.

"Back off, Dillon," he warned. "I killed women before, and I sure don't care nothin' 'bout killin' _yer_ woman here."

Heart in her throat, she stared at Matt, watched as he gritted his teeth, contemplating the scene before him, his Colt already drawn and aimed toward the outlaw.

"I mean it!" Layton cried, voice pitched high and kind of crazy. None of them doubted his sincerity. "Drop yer gun. Drop it, or I'll do her right now."

Glancing toward Cantrell, Matt took only another second before he made his decision, tossing the pistol away from him, spreading his arms out by his side. "Let her go, Layton," he said, still calm, still in control, despite the circumstances.

Surprise crossed the other man's scarred features. "How'd you know who I wuz?" he demanded, then yelled at Cantrell without taking his eyes from the lawman. "You son of a – "

"Glenn didn't tell me," Matt said quickly. "Got a telegram from Pueblo." He let his gaze take in Cantrell, let his voice reveal his disappointment. "Know where that money came from, now. I wish you hadn't come here, Glenn."

His former friend nodded. "You and me both, Matt. It's done now, though."

"Let Kitty go," he said, meeting her eyes just long enough for her to feel his strength. "Take me if you need a hostage."

Before Cantrell could answer, Layton snapped, "We don't need no hostage. We're takin' yer woman 'cause she's yer woman. Make you hurt even more knowin' she's gettin' did by a real man!"

"You touch her, and – "

Layton cackled and stepped toward the door, the movement pulling the pistol away from Kitty's head. A roar of fury accompanied the marshal's dive toward his gun, but Cantrell was faster. Before Matt could reach the discarded Colt, his old friend had drawn and fired, the bullet smashing into his right thigh just above the knee. Kitty screamed, but Layton held fast to her, dragging her out the door and over the prone lawman.

"Layton!" Matt yelled, grabbing vainly for them, his voice fierce, no longer in control. "I'll kill you!"

Stumbling down the alley, Kitty looked back, saw the blood already soaking Matt's pants, watched in horror as he fell back, losing his grasp on consciousness. She cried out his name but there was no response.

Their horses waited restlessly by the stairs, and Layton wasted no time hoisting her up on one of the animals, pulling himself up behind her and pushing his groin crudely against her backside. His stained leer both revolted and terrified her. Cantrell slung himself over his own mount, and they worked their way out the back of the alley behind the general store.

They were several buildings away from the Long Branch when a weaving Louie Pheeters stumbled up to them.

"Evenin', Miss Kitty," he greeted, not at all perplexed at seeing her in the company of two strange men. He doffed his hat, revealing a head of scattered hair.

Layton tightened his grip on her in warning. "Louie," she answered with relief. If she could somehow let him know about Matt without –

"Get outta the way, ya' damn drunk," Layton snarled.

Louie's eyebrows rose. "A gentleman does not speak that way in front of a lady," he berated.

"_Lady?"_ the outlaw scoffed.

"_Gentleman?"_ Kitty muttered with sour humor.

Glenn clicked his horse forward. "You're right, mister. My friend didn't mean nothin' by it. Why don't you just move along now?"

But the old drunk squinted at them, not quite so easily dismissed. "Are you going somewhere, Miss Kitty?" he asked, eyeing the two men with a suspicious glare.

Layton eased his gun against the small of Kitty's back. "Tell this _gentleman _whar yer goin', _Miss _Kitty."

She considered taking her chances for a brief moment, then decided against a foolish move that would put Louie in harm's way. "I'm, uh – Louie, I'm going to my _Uncle Artie's place_ for a few days. Remind the marshal when you see him, will you?"

The old man frowned in confusion. "But – "

"Arrite now," Layton snarled.

"_Uncle Artie's place_. Tell him," she stressed.

Louie pressed his hat against his heart. "Miss Kitty, you can count on me."

"I know I can, Louie," she said, with no small amount of warmth.

"Git goin', now," Layton instructed. "Miss Kitty's got things ta do. Don't ya', Miss Kitty?"

"Remember to tell him, Louie," she said as Cantrell and Layton moved their small group along toward the open prairie. "Remember."

"I'll remember, Miss Kitty," he promised, but her heart sank as she watched him stumble down the alley in the wrong direction. It would be late the next day before Louie came to enough to follow through – if he did at all.

As they broke into a gallop, Kitty thought she heard a distant voice call out, "Mister Dillon!"

She prayed that Chester got to Matt in time to keep him from bleeding to death. She prayed that Doc wasn't out delivering a baby. She prayed that she had the strength to endure whatever Layton and Cantrell intended to do with her – and she was pretty sure she knew. And she prayed that fate would intervene just one more time and bring her back into Matt's arms.

**TBC**


	9. Chapter 8: Too Great a Price

**Defend Me from My Friends**

**Chapter Eight: Too Great a Price**

**POV: Matt**

At first, the throbbing in his leg didn't really register. After all, that same leg had throbbed on a daily basis for some time now, and he fully expected it to continue throbbing the rest of his life – however brief that might be. But the closer his hazy subconscious approached the clarity of consciousness, the more the throbbing escalated into a ceaseless, pounding pain that jerked him finally from the veil of sleep.

With a gasp, he woke, instinctively bracing to confront any possible dangers that had propelled him into this situation. But the flexing of his muscles only intensified the pain, and he fell back, groaning and clutching at the offending leg.

"Whoa, there!" came the familiar voice, and Matt relaxed, recognizing he was at Doc's and in no immediate danger – he hoped.

"Doc," he managed.

"Right here," the physician assured him, moving into Matt's line of sight. "You just lie right there and be still."

"My leg—"

"Is gonna be all right, but that bullet nicked a major artery." Matt saw the depth of Doc's concern and realized it was pretty serious this time. "Tell ya the truth, you almost – " He ran a hand over his mustache and shook his head. "Well, you lost a lot of blood. A lot of blood."

Absorbing that news, Matt closed his eyes, trying to recreate the events that led to the injury, but things were blurry, jumbled. As he glanced down, assessing the damage, his eyes ran across the bruised, scraped knuckles of his left hand, and he had a vague recollection of breaking up a fight in some saloon. After that, he recalled seeing Barney's telegram, and after that – "

"Kitty!" he gasped. Despite the pain and an almost total lack of strength, he tried again to sit, but it took Doc only a gentle push to keep him down.

"I know you heard me tell you how much bloodyou lost," he scolded.

"But Kitty – "

"Chester and some of the men have been out looking," Doc told him, his own concern evident in his tone.

"How long?"

Doc winced, not a good sign. "He found you night before last in the doorway to Kitty's office, bleeding to death. After I got a tourniquet on you, and we got you up here, he went back to find Kitty, but – "

"_They took her_," Matt growled, anger and worry cracking his voice. "Cantrell and his partner. They're going to – they might already have – " He stopped, unable to finish.

Doc stared at him, horrified.

"I gotta get up, Doc. I gotta go after her." He fought to drag himself halfway off the bed before his vision swam and darkness pulled him back down, her name on his lips.

**XXX**

It was another two days before Chester and the make-shift posse dragged back into town, the slow clop of their horses and the solemn lines of their faces evidence of their failure. If he had been able to muster enough strength to do more than sit up in the bed, he would have been in the saddle already, scouring the countryside for any sign of where they might have taken Kitty. As it was, he had to listen, heartsick, as Chester relayed how they followed several wild goose trails and ultimately lost any real leads after a quick, hard downpour had washed away tracking signs.

"Mister Dillon," Chester said, clutching his hat in his hands and shaking his head. "I'm just awful sorry we didn't find her. We looked and looked, and – I just kain't imagine where – well, I'm just – I'm just sa' sorry."

The marshal suppressed a surge of anger that he recognized came from his own frustrations. Chester certainly hadn't done anything wrong. In fact, he was the only one who had done anything at all – he and the posse. Dillon felt impotent, lying there unable even to stand without Doc's assistance.

"We did the best we could, but – " Chester started.

"I know you did," he assured him, despite his own doubts. He hadn't been there, hadn't seen for himself, wondered what they might have missed.

"But we ain't givin' up. The men are gettin' fresh horses and some food before we go back out."

Gritting his teeth, Matt nodded and braced an arm against the bed to push himself up straighter. "Good. Get my horse saddled – "

"What?" Pushing in front of Chester, Doc drew himself up and glared at his patient before turning back to the other man. "Chester, don't you dare put a saddle on Buck. He's not going anywhere. Not today, not tomorrow. not for a good long while."

"Doc," Matt argued, "I can't just lie here while Kitty – you don't understand – "

"I do understand," he said, his tone softening to confirm his words. "But you won't do Kitty any good out there slowing down Chester and the others. Think about it, Matt. How long do you think you'd last on a horse – if you can even get on one to start with?" Running a hand over his mustache, he added quietly but firmly, "I hate to say it, but you'd be more of a burden than a help."

Chester's wince contributed to the veracity of Doc's statement. Damn it!

After a long moment, during which his companions watched him carefully, he blew out a heavy breath and nodded. "All right, Doc. All right." Locking gazes with Chester, he let the intensity of his feelings show in his eyes. "When you go back out, get everyone to split up in pairs. Cover as much territory as you can." He swallowed back the nausea that suddenly assaulted him, waving Doc away before he continued. "Look for every clue, no matter how insignificant it seems."

"Yes, sir." His brown eyes sympathetic, Chester offered Dillon his hand, which the lawman took as firmly as he could.

"Thank you," Matt said, swallowing again, his eyes burning, his jaw tightening.

Clearing his throat, Doc mumbled something about making sure Chester headed out in the right direction and followed the other man down the stairs. Matt saw through him easily, but appreciated the chance to collect himself.

As he heard the posse gathering once again in the street below, Matt let his head drop back onto the pillow, teeth clenched with the frustration of not being able to join them. If they didn't find her this time, he'd go himself, even if they had to haul him down the stairs and tie him to his horse.

The next couple of hours were spent in and out of a restless, painful sleep. He woke himself more than once calling out Kitty's name and was grateful Doc had not returned to hear him, or if he had, did not acknowledge it. He was drifting again when the opening of a door pulled him instantly back to alertness.

"Marshal?" The call came from Doc's front room, a tentative question asked by a surprisingly cultured voice.

Matt relaxed and sighed, not in the mood for any visitors, and particularly not this one. But ingrained courtesy dictated that he respond. "In here, Louie," he said, voice tight with pain.

After a few shuffling steps, the old man poked his head into the bedroom, pulling his hat from his head. Matt had never been sure what Louie's background was, but he could tell that at one time in his past, the alcoholic had lived in refinement. It made him sad to think about.

"How are you feeling, Marshal?" he asked, entering farther to stand by the bed.

"I'm okay, Louie," he said patiently. "Kinda tired, though. Maybe you can come back later."

"Surely, Marshal," he agreed amicably. "I just came by to give you a message from Miss Kitty, but – "

The name grabbed him, and he sat up suddenly, letting his good leg drop over the edge of the bed. "What about Kitty?" he demanded, wincing with the jolt of pain that shot through him.

"Saw her when she left a few nights ago."

"_What?_ When?"

Louie seemed taken aback by the marshal's intensity. "About midnight or so. Maybe later – " 

"Where?"

"Behind the Long Branch. Or maybe it was Jonas's store. Or it could have been – "

"_Louie!"_

"Well, she and two men were headed, uh, somewhere, I'm not sure – "

He dragged the bad leg off the bed. "_Think, _Louie!" he demanded through gritted teeth. "Do you know where they were going? Did they say anything?"

"Disagreeable looking fellows. I didn't think Miss Kitty should be in their company, but – "

"Come _on_, Louie," he snapped, reaching up to grasp the frail shoulders between his hands, all patience exhausted.

Eyes wide, the old man stammered, "Uh, Miss Kitty said, uh, she wanted me to tell you – " He stopped and looked up in thought. "Let's see, she wanted me to tell you – that, uh – "

Matt resisted the urge to shake the poor man. "Tell me _what_, Louie? Tell me _what_?"

"Oh, yes!" He smiled. "She wanted me to tell you that she was going to visit her Uncle Artie for a few days."

"Uncle _Artie_?" Matt asked, hands dropping, searching his memory for any relative of Kitty's by that name. "Uncle Artie?"

"Yes. Said she was going to his place."

"Uncle Artie's place?"

"That's what she said."

"Artie's – _Art's_ place – " Realization dawned on him, and his mind raced. The search party was already gone. He needed some clothes. His pants were ruined, blood stained and torn to rags. "Louie," he said, voice firm now.

"Yes, sir?"

"Listen, I need you to do something for me."

"Anything, Marshal. You know that."

"Go down to Moss Grimmick's and get him to saddle my horse. Tell him to add a blanket and canteen, and I'll settle with him later. Got that?"

"I got it," the old man assured him.

Heart pounding, he pulled in a careful breath. "Then go over to the jail and bring me another pair of pants. Bring them right up here." He glanced toward the door and added, "Avoid Doc if you can."

Emboldened by his inclusion in the conspiracy, Louie gave a little salute and nodded. "Yes, sir, Marshal. I shall return forthwith!"

Despite his worry, the lawman chuckled fondly.

By the time the old man returned, Matt had discarded the nightshirt Doc had put on him and was sitting on the bed, covers pulled over his groin, left foot on the floor, bandaged right leg propped again on the mattress. His shirt was half on before he thought about the discarded union suit, which was just as bloodied and torn as his pants. Well, he'd just have to go without. The idea of what Kitty might say to that brought a smile to his face before the gravity of the situation overrode it.

Louie saluted again when he entered, then held out the requested article of clothing as if it were a communique from General Grant himself, smuggled through enemy lines. "Moss said Buck would be ready when you arrived."

Cold sweat poured down his face as Matt nodded, struggling into the trousers. Frustrated at his own weakness, he gave in to the necessity of having Louie help him with his boots, finally reaching out a shaking hand to grasp the bedpost and pull himself to his feet.

Pure agony exploded in his thigh, a quickly encroaching tunnel of black almost pulling him back down, but he fought it, and eventually, he could see again, could stand – after a fashion anyway.

"Marshal," Louie observed doubtfully, "you don't look so good. Maybe you shouldn't – "

Wiping a sleeve across his forehead, the lawman said hoarsely, "I'm fine. Just gotta – get moving."

He wasn't sure exactly how he made it down the stairs with only Louie and the railing for support, could remember starting out at the top and finishing at the bottom, but nothing in between. It occurred to him that he might have actually blacked out at some point. But then, how could Louie have –

His speculation drifted when he saw Moss waiting just off the boardwalk with Buck in tow. Thank goodness; he could never have made it all the way to the stables. He eyed the huge gelding with renewed apprehension.

"Marshal," Moss greeted, peering closely at the ashen man. "You sure you wanna do this? You don't look too good."

He did not doubt it, but managed a nod. "Help me – up," he gasped, trying to ignore the curious crowd that had begun to gather.

His right arm slung around the stableman, Matt tried not to put too much weight on the injured leg as he lifted the other one into the stirrup. Still, he'd have to push off with the bad one in order to lift his body up. Muscles burning, he grabbed the horn with his left hand while Moss and Louie tried their best to support him. The futility of their efforts must have been obvious, because two strapping cowboys stepped off the boardwalk and approached them.

"Need some help, Marshal?" one of them asked.

Matt glanced around then grunted, "Yeah," hating the weakness in his voice. A concerned murmur ran through the group of onlookers

The other cowboy peered up into his face. "Say, I think maybe we should get Doc. You don't look like you should be goin' nowheres, Marshal."

Matt licked his lips, noticing that they felt parched. Fever coming, most likely. He discarded the thought. "Just – get me up there."

The men looked at each other then nodded, scooting Moss and Louie out of the way. As one shoved from the rear, the other hauled Matt's right leg across the saddle, pain screaming through it, and for a moment, he thought perhaps he might end up in the dirt on the other side, but with sheer determination – and the assistance of several helping hands – he righted himself and hung on. After a few seconds of blackness, his vision cleared enough for him to nod his thanks. He could see by their expressions not one of them expected him to make it very far. Tugging at the reins, he had just coaxed the horse out onto Front Street when an outraged voice sounded through the crowd.

"What in God's name is going on here?" Doc demanded, rushing in front of Buck and grabbing the horse's bridle, forcing him to a halt.

Vision swimming, body swaying and half bent over the saddle, Matt mustered up enough strength to answer. "I gotta go after her, Doc."

"No, you do _not _have to – " 

He blinked. Two wavy, grey-headed, mustached figures glared at him now. "I think I – know where – she is."

"Then send somebody else."

"Can't. Too – dangerous." He wished the town would stop spinning so fast.

"Oh, _really? _How come Chester and the others are out there then? How come – Do you know what you look like? I've seen men laid out at Percy's who looked better. You won't last to the edge of town, Matt."

Determined to belie that prophesy, he straightened, squinting in a vain attempt to clear his vision. "Can't – be helped, Doc." Carefully, he pulled Buck away from the physician's hold.

"You're gonna kill yourself!" Doc called out desperately as the horse plodded past him. "Damn it, Matt, you're gonna kill yourself!"

He closed his eyes, fighting to stay conscious, to stay on the horse. Doc was probably right. He might, indeed, kill himself. He wasn't unaccustomed to that possibility. And if that's what it took to save Kitty, it wouldn't be too great a price.

**TBC**


	10. Chapter 9: That Law Dog is Dead

**Defend Me from My Friends**

**Chapter Nine: That Law Dog is Dead**

**POV: Kitty**

Kitty Russell reeled with the vicious slap Jake Layton laid across her cheek. Stumbling back against the hearth, she barely missed cracking her head open on the jagged stones.

"Bitch!" he snarled, left hand cupping his own jaw where three slashes oozed red from her nails. "Don't you git all high an' mighty with me! You think I'm gonna _pay_ fer it or somethin'?" His hulking body advanced on her menacingly, his right arm raised to strike again.

Blouse ripped, hair wild, she backed away from him, knowing there was no way out, no alternative to his attack – and no U.S. marshal to save her from this fate. A sob escaped her at that thought.

"Shut up!" the outlaw spat as he swung, his blow snapping her head back and knocking her to the floor.

She raised an arm, knowing the gesture was futile, as he hovered over her.

"Layton!" Glenn Cantrell's voice sounded flat against the log walls, but it was enough to make the other man pause – and to draw a relieved sigh from Kitty.

But Layton didn't shift his glare or lower his arm. "Get the hell outta here, Cantrell. Don't need more 'a yer bleedin' heart fer this whore."

Cantrell shrugged. "I don't care about her. I'm just thinkin' that if Dillon shows up he'll be easier to manage if she's still alive and not _hurt_."

"Dillon?" Layton spat, finally turning back toward the door. "That law dog is _dead_, or close enough not to make no difference. We ain't gotta worry 'bout _him_."

Cocking his head as if he was considering the other man's statement, Cantrell said, "Yer probably right, but I've known Matt Dillon since we wuz young 'uns, and he don't die so easy."

"You tellin' me you didn't plug him good enough?"

"No. I'm telling you any other man would be singin' with the angels, or the devil, but Dillon – " He shrugged.

Kitty's heart pounded from both Layton's attack and hearing Matt's name. She prayed Cantrell was right at least about Matt still being alive, but she wasn't sure she wanted to see him come after her. He wouldn't stand much of a chance against the rested, well-armed outlaws, especially in the shape she last saw him.

With a cackle, Layton spun around to face her again. "I'll take my chances. If Dillon's alive, he shore ain't gonna be showin' up here." His leer widened as he stepped closer to Kitty. "Now Red, you try them claws again and see what ol' Jake'll do to ya."

Trapped against the stones of the fireplace, she fumbled for something to grab, something to smash against the side of that oily head, though she knew Cantrell would be on her even if she should manage to take Layton down.

"Jake!" one of the other men called from outside, pulling Layton away just as her fingers wrapped around a broken rock.

"Damn it!" he yelled, pushing past Cantrell and stomping across the threshold.

Kitty slumped, letting her hand relax around the impromptu weapon. Her gaze met Cantrell's black eyes and held for a moment, but she couldn't read anything in them. After a few seconds he ducked out the doorway, leaving her alone once more, although she could still hear their argument in the yard.

"Ain't nothin' out there," Layton growled. "Yer all getting' skittish. Been here too damn long. Where the hell is Ox anyway?"

"He'll be here," Cantrell assured him. "Takes a while from the border."

"He'd damn well better hurry or we're gonna take that Dodge bank without him."

Kitty closed her eyes, knowing there was no way for her to get word back to town to warn them – to warn Matt.

"With Dillon dead," Layton continued confidently, "we kin jest walk right in. We wait too long and they'll have them another lawman in town."

And then the bank suddenly seemed unimportant as nausea rose in Kitty's throat at the image of Matt's strong body cold and still, his beautiful eyes glazed and unseeing. She pushed away that horrendous picture, desperately envisioning her man whole, healthy, and standing tall before her.

Leaning her trembling body against the fireplace, she looked around at her meager surroundings. Art Dunbar's place was a one-room cabin abandoned three years earlier when its owner had given up on raising sheep and headed to Denver for the promise of riches at the big city gambling tables. Last any of them heard, Ol' Artie was just as poor these three years later.

But Kitty didn't spend any time pondering Artie's fate as she sat on a crude cot, the dirt floor damp and earthy smelling, the rough-hewn logs, which had never really fit well together, now dotted with holes that let in shafts of daylight to splotch the tiny one-room dwelling as if it had been painted that way. She was way too busy pondering how the hell she was going to get out of this bleak situation and back to Matt. Her last vision of him haunted her: prostrate on the floor of her office, reaching out in vain toward Layton or Cantrell or her even as his head fell back and his eyes closed. Surely Chester found him, got him to Doc's, saved him. She could not allow herself to think otherwise. If she did, her own fate was doomed, because there would be no reason to fight, no reason to survive. So she clung to the hope that Matt was safe, and that somehow she would be also.

Exactly how that would happen, however, she hadn't quite figured out yet.

**TBC**


	11. Chapter 10: Every Man's Got a Weakness

**Defend Me from My Friends**

**Chapter Ten: Every Man's Got a Weakness**

**POV: Matt**

It didn't take long for Matt to pick up the outlaw's trail, and he shook his head at the posse's apparent blindness, immediately regretting that movement as shards of pain sliced through his skull. When he was able to think again, he reminded himself that Chester wasn't a trained tracker, and the rest of the posse was comprised of volunteer townsmen just trying to help. Nor did they have the benefit of the clue Kitty had passed on to Louie.

Urging Buck on, he fought not to be consumed by the fire that burned from his thigh up to his hip and down to his foot; the fire in his head was almost as bad. He swayed in the saddle and acknowledged the very real possibility that his body would betray him, that he wouldn't make it to Art's place, or that, if he did manage to make it there alive, he wouldn't be in any shape to help Kitty.

Stinging, bloodshot eyes stared hard at the ground as he followed the tracks. More than once he found himself falling forward toward Buck's mane and struggled to sit straight again. Worry for Kitty, fury at Glenn Cantrell, and uncertainty about his own ability tore at him. Any guilt that might have lingered over the events at Chickamauga disappeared the moment Cantrell and Layton took Kitty. He cursed his hesitation the night Glenn first showed him the money. He should have acted then, should have thrown his old comrade in jail while he followed up on the Pueblo robbery. But he wanted to give his former friend the benefit of the doubt, wanted to trust him, wanted not to be obligated just because his own bullet had been the one to draw blood those many years ago.

He had been wrong, and now Kitty was the one paying for it. Again.

On any other day, Ol' Art's place would have been an easy ride from Dodge, but blood loss, fever, and pain roughened the road. Matt blinked at the dark spots swimming in front of him, until finally the weathered logs of the house appeared through a small grove of trees. Clucking softly to Buck, he swallowed hard and struggled to slide his big body from the saddle without landing on the leg, but when his right boot shifted, taking too much of his weight, he bit off an agonized cry. Hanging on desperately to the saddle horn and Buck's mane, he fought to stay conscious. The spots coalesced into one solid curtain of black and then gradually dissipated until he could again make out the tan of his horse and the green of the leaves. His shirt damp with cold sweat and sticking to him, he squinted through the leaves to see that the cabin was not 100 feet away. Layton, Cantrell, and two other men stood just outside the door, their voices carried by the wind.

" – damned if I'm gonna hang around this piss-poor pile of sticks until – " Layton was saying as he faced Cantrell.

"He said it'd be today or tomorrow," Glenn countered. "We can wait – "

"We bin waitin'!

"That bank ain't goin' nowheres. Besides, Dillon ain't gonna stop us, is he? Dodge is wide open."

Damn. He should have known there was more to it that just getting out of Dodge. Contemplating his chances of taking on all of them, he figured if he got the drop on Layton first –

One of the other men slapped Layton on the back. "Figured you'd be jest as happy to wait, seein' as how you got thet fine lookin' redhead ta entertain ya, Jake."

Matt's teeth ground together at the statement, the bank momentarily forgotten, and he stared at the cabin, searching in vain for any movement to show that she was in there. If anything happened to Kitty, he would personally tear every single one of those bastards limb from limb.

A twig snapped behind him, and he swore, belatedly realizing the consequence of his distraction. Without time to brace his injured leg, he tried to turn, but a sudden, hard blow against his left side staggered him. Crashing back, he saw a huge man, as tall as he was and at least fifty pounds heavier, raise a rifle butt and slam it into his ribs. There was an audible crack. Desperately trying to fight back the sharp agony, he scrambled to draw his gun, but just as his fingers grazed the ivory grip, pain exploded across his kidneys, and he collapsed into darkness.

**XXX**

" – done good, Ox. We figgered you wasn't gonna git here in time."

"Got here right in time, seems ta me."

"Yep. Yer shore nuff right 'bout that. "

"Think he's comin' around."

"Toss thet bucket of water on 'im."

Matt Dillon jerked hard, coughing and choking as water slammed into his nose and mouth. He tried to sit, but pain blasted through his entire body, shoving him back to the ground. With effort he lifted his head to see six men standing in front of him, watching with malicious amusement.

"Well, now," one of the men began, stepping toward him. Matt recognized Layton's voice before he could see him clearly. "Ol' Glenn wuz right, Dillon. You don't die sa' easy." He laughed. "But we're gonna change that right soon."

"Where's Kitty?" Matt demanded.

"Kitty?" the other man asked innocently.

Bound hand and foot, Matt pulled at the restraints, ignoring the sharp sting as the rope cut into his wrists. "Damn it, Layton! Let her go."

Layton shrugged. "I didn't figger you'd be fit ta come after us, Lawman, but they say every man's got a weakness. Ain't too hard to figger yours." He grinned. "And I see why, too. She's a sweet piece of ass – "

Fever, fatigue, pain, and fury overrode caution, and before logic could temper his actions, he somehow shoved himself to his knees. Despite the agony that shot through him, he roared, "Let her go! You got me now. You don't need her anymore."

Jake rubbed his scruffy jaw and shook his head. "Dillon, you ain't in much of a state ta' tell me what to do. Matter of fact, yer 'bout ta be in a state where you kaint tell me _nothin'_." He gave a quick motion with his hand to the man who had ambushed the lawman earlier. "Okay, Ox. He's all yers."

The hulking form advanced, grinning eerily.

Matt managed to bite off a grunt with the first blow against his jaw, although the force snapped his head back hard. Another followed, smashing into his right eye. Even the brutal fist to his sore kidneys didn't elicit a sound from the big man. But the fourth one, a kick into already battered ribs, knocked a harsh gasp from him and doubled him over, fighting to suck in air, struggling not to be sick in front of his captors.

Ox grunted. "You ain't sa' big and mighty now, Law."

Raising his head slightly, Matt swallowed hard and gazed at Glenn Cantrell. His former partner sat apart from the group, his face impassive. What an idiot he had been to trust the man. If only somehow their old loyalties still meant enough to buy him time.

And time was what he needed. Time to get Kitty out of there. Time to think of a plan to stop this murderous gang from more killing. But thinking wasn't easy, not with his head throbbing and the rest of his body pounding.

Strong arms jerked him brutally back to his knees; he could only sag in their grasp.

"Matt!" he heard Kitty cry from inside the cabin, her voice raw and passionate.

Peering through the blood that ran down his face, Dillon growled, "If you have laid _one_ hand on her – "

"Oh, she ain't hurt," Layton said. "In fact, she's jest fine. _Real_ fine. I'll give ya this, Dillon, you sure know how ta pick yer whores."

The name he called the outlaw – the vilest he knew – earned him a kick directly on his ravaged thigh, and for a long moment he couldn't see or hear anything over the pain screaming through his body. Slowly, he opened his eyes to find himself still held in Ox's grasp.

His chin lay against his chest, eyes staring unfocused at the patchy grass. The cabin door opened but he couldn't find the energy to look – until he heard her gasp. Heart pounding, he managed to lift his head just as Layton dragged Kitty out into the yard. She was disheveled, her hair half torn from its pins, her dress ripped at the shoulder, her cheek darkened and bruised, her eyes squinting into the sunlight as if she hadn't seen it in days.

_Oh, Kitty_, he moaned silently. Their eyes met, and he gave her a slight shake of his head, grateful when he saw that she understood the multiple messages of assurance, caution – and love – all conveyed in that one, subtle movement.

His gaze then searched for Glenn, for his old friend – and new enemy – and found him standing several feet away from the others. "You have what you want, Cantrell," he managed, straining to bring strength to his voice. "Let her go."

"I wish I could, Matt," Glenn said, sounding almost sincere. "Wish I could."

Dillon's dulled brain recognized that his time was almost up, and he frantically searched for some way out, some way to save her. Knowing he sounded desperate – because he was – he pleaded, "Tie her up with me, then. You'll be long gone by the time anyone finds us."

"Shut up!" Layton yelled, then turned toward Cantrell and ordered, "Finish 'im off and let's git outta here."

Cantrell frowned. "What about the woman?"

Layton leered at Kitty. "Yeah, she's a pretty piece, thet's fer shore, but we ain't got th' time ta' entertain her. Shame. You take care of her man, there, an' she'll be occupied right ennuf fer us not ta' worry about."

Relief flooded Matt's chest. They would kill him, but Kitty would be safe. It was a price he was willing to pay – had always been willing to pay.

"Aw, but you sed we cud take her," one of the other men whined.

"I sed we ain't got time," Layton snapped back, his tone accepting no argument. The man glared at him, but didn't say anything else.

Cantrell nodded. "All right." He turned back toward Matt, drawing his pistol.

Swallowing, Dillon squared his shoulders as best he could and met his old friend's gaze evenly.

"What – what are you doing?" Kitty cried out.

But Cantrell ignored her. "I'm awful sorry about this, Matt," he said, raising the barrel so that it pointed toward the lawman. "Wish there was some other way."

"No!" Kitty yelled.

"Think what you're doing, Glenn," Matt warned, sick that Kitty had to watch this. "Nothing but trouble is gonna to follow you."

"It's been followin' me all my life, Matt." Cantrell took careful aim at the marshal's head. "You just don't move and this'll be quick. At least I owe ya' that much."

Matt clenched his teeth, bracing for the shot, even as he tried to reason with Cantrell one final time. "Don't do it, Glenn."

"Don't move," Cantrell said again, staring intently into Matt's eyes.

Dillon's bleary thoughts snapped into focus a second before the eruption of pain through his skull obliterated them.

**TBC**


	12. Chapter 11: Right Highly

**Defend Me from my Friends**

**by MAHC (Amanda)**

**Chapter Eleven: Right Highly**

**POV: Chester**

Chester Goode wiped grit-flecked sweat from his brow and thought, with a wry head shake, that his horse fit him well. The poor gelding was now just as lame as he was and limped behind his owner as they slowly made their stumbling way back into Dodge. The rest of the posse had returned only a few hours earlier, saddle sore and discouraged. Rich in intent, they were unfortunately poor in experience and skill when it came to tracking, the bulk of them shopkeepers, tradesmen, or farmers. Chester had managed to lead them long enough to eliminate two possible routes away from Dodge, but by the time they tried to tackle another one, fatigue, hunger, and raw backsides forced them to return home.

Regardless of what the others did, Chester was determined to get a few hours of sleep and a fresh horse, then head out once more, unable to bear the thought of what could be happening to Miss Kitty while they searched unsuccessfully for her. He thought right highly of the saloon owner, not only one of the prettiest women he'd ever met, but one of the nicest and most generous, too. Why, he bet she'd given out enough free drinks to those in need - not to mention himself - to buy a whole `nother saloon.

Of course, he knew he wasn't the only one who thought highly of Miss Kitty. Mr. Dillon favored her, too. Favored her quite a bit, Chester had figured out over the years. In the early days, the marshal and Miss Kitty had danced around each other some, but later even Chester had noticed how they sat right next to each other in the Long Branch, how they ran into each other at lunchtime almost every day Mr. Dillon was in town, and how the marshal rarely slept at the jail anymore, having found some other place to spend his nights. Chester might be kind of naive - but he wasn't blind.

He thought right highly of both Miss Kitty and Mr. Dillon, and he couldn't imagine losing both of them. But it was much too close to happening now. He shuddered as he remembered the horrible sight of the marshal's strong body lying helpless in the threshold of Miss Kitty's office, a pool of blood spreading like crimson fire beneath him, his face white, his mouth slack. Terrified that the man he idolized was dead, he shoved his hand in his pocket, tugging out a ribbon of leather he had been working to soften and praying it would make a sufficient tourniquet until Doc could get to them. It worked - barely. By the time the physician had stopped the bleeding long enough for a cooperative group of drovers to haul the marshal's body up to his office, Mr. Dillon was ashen and clammy. A search to find Miss Kitty brought about the terrible realization that she was gone, and that whoever had shot Mr. Dillon had most likely taken her. That was confirmed when the marshal finally woke up days later.

He might have figured the big lawman would defy death yet again. Chester had joked - only to himself - that Matt Dillon must be part feline, as many lives as he'd used up already and still breathed. But he figured if something happened to Miss Kitty, and she didn't - well, he wondered if Mr. Dillon might rather have bled out from that outlaw's bullet instead.

The dusty streets of Dodge greeted him, and despite the ugly, sprawling townscape, Chester found himself glad to be home. After leaving his exhausted horse with Moss Grimmick, he headed toward Doc's office, dreading the news he had to share with the marshal, but thankful it wasn't worse. He sincerely hoped that no news was good news in this case.

"Doc?" he called, pushing open the door at the top of the stairs.

Almost instantly, Adams appeared from the back room, his eyes roaming quickly over the younger man and then flicking past him. "Chester! Did you find her?"

He shook his head tiredly. "No, Doc. Nairy a sign."

"Then what are you doing back here?'

"Forevermore, Doc! A man kain't keep goin' without changin' horses and restockin'. Posse come back in before me."

"I know. I saw `em."

Exhaustion shortening his temper, he barked, "Then why – "

"I just hoped," the physician said, and the worried look on his face softened any irritation Chester felt. Doc eyed him more carefully. "What are you doing up here? Are you hurt?"

"No, I ain't hurt. I just come up ta check on Mister Dillon. How is he, Doc?"

Doc ran a hand over his mustache and shook his head. "Well, he's not here is how he is."

"Not here?"

"I was kinda hoping he was with you."

"Mister Dillon?" Chester asked, confused. "Why no, of course he ain't – well, why ain't he here?"

The doctor sighed. "He went after Kitty."

Chester straightened, stunned. "He went after – well, how on earth – Doc, how could you let him go? He wasn't in any kind of shape – "

"I know perfectly well what kind of shape he _wasn't_ in," Doc snapped. "You think I _let_ him go? Fool couldn't even walk – couple of cowboys had to put him on his horse – and he thinks he can – "

"Why, Doc?"

"Why do you think?"

"I mean why'd he go off now? He agreed to stay when we left – "

"Said he knows where she is."

The younger man's eyes widened. "He did? How'd he know that? Me and the posse's been all over the prairie lookin' and ain't seen nothin'."

"I have no idea. He was barely hanging on to his saddle when I caught him leaving, but as usual he wouldn't listen to reason and just – " Doc threw his hand out in a random direction " – galloped on out hell bent on doing it himself."

Chester didn't know what to say to that. Not that it surprised him when he thought more about it. He'd seen Matt Dillon drag himself up from having one foot in the grave and save the day. He only hoped that could happen again.

Exhaling loudly, the older man cocked his head toward the door and said, "You need a drink before you head back out? I'll buy."

"You'll buy?" Chester exclaimed, grinning despite the circumstances. "Well, Doc, I don't rightly know how I can turn that down."

He was rewarded to hear a chuckle from the physician and figured one drink wouldn't hurt. In fact, he'd just about decided it was necessary.

The Long Branch was subdued, as if the walls themselves were missing Kitty, too. Only a couple of regulars sat nursing lukewarm whiskey. Chester and Doc sat with their beers, neither one feeling much like talking. It was only a matter of time before the marshal's assistant had to haul himself back onto a horse and start searching again. And although neither man wanted to say it aloud, it was only a matter of time before the search would become futile – for both Miss Kitty and Mr. Dillon.

A chipper whistle interrupted the pall when Louie Pheeters stumbled into the saloon. He was already half-tight, Chester determined. But then, Louie pretty much stayed half-tight. Spotting them, the old man waved and danced toward their table.

"Well, fine gentlemen," he greeted, doffing his hat, "and how are you today?"

"We ain't too good, Louie," Chester responded with obvious irritation.

Surprised, Pheeters stopped. "I'm sorry to hear that, Chester," he said sincerely. "How can I help you?"

"You could find Miss Kitty for us," he said, even though he knew he should have just let the old drunk move on.

"Oh," Louie assured him, "Marshal Dillon will find her. He knows exactly – " Eyes wide, he stopped abruptly, but Doc had already stood so quickly that his chair crashed over behind him.

"What do you mean, Louie?" he demanded. "What do you know about where Matt went?"

But Pheeters shook his head. "I don't know nothin', Doc. Nothin'."

By this time, Chester had pushed himself up, too, and grabbed the old man's thin shoulders. "Louie, you gotta tell us where Mister Dillon went. You just gotta tell us!"

"My lips are sealed." He drew a shaking finger across his mouth in demonstration. "I promised the marshal."

"Do you want to help Miss Kitty?" Doc asked.

The old man hesitated. "She's a good woman."

Chester sensed weakness. "She sure is, and she's in danger – and so is Mister Dillon."

"The marshal's in danger, too?"

"Yes, he is," Doc said, stepping closer. "Didn't you see how badly he was hurt? He can't ride all over looking for her. He should be in bed."

"He didn't look too good," the drunk acknowledged.

"He needs help. They both do." Doc rested a hand on Pheeter's back. "Now tell us where he was headed."

Louie thought for a moment, then nodded. "Miss Kitty told me to tell the marshal she was going to visit her Uncle Artie for a few days."

"Uncle Artie?" Doc repeated. "I've never heard Kitty mention – "

"You mean Ol' Art Dunbar?" asked Chester. "Why, he ain't Miss Kitty's uncle – "

Louie shrugged, but Doc snapped his fingers and said, "Art's cabin!"

Chester's eyes widened. "Well sure, Doc. That's the one direction we ain't been yet."

"Let's go, then," Doc declared. "Soon as I get my bag."

"Yer goin'?"

"Of course I'm going," Doc yelled. "You think I'm just gonna let you ham-hand Matt and Kitty when they could be – " His words broke off, and he shook his head. "You just get my buggy from Moss's while I get my bag and –"

A sudden eruption of gunfire jolted them, and they both spun around just in time to witness three men scrambling from the bank, shouting and cursing and firing back into the building.

"A robbery!" Chester cried, but he could only watch helplessly as the group leaped on their horses and tore down the street, billows of dust scattering behind them, obscuring the views of the stunned citizens.

Despite his age, Doc was already hurrying toward a body sprawled in the dirt.

"Oh my goodness," Chester breathed, then called out louder, "Who is it?"

"It's Bodkin!" Doc yelled back. "He's hurt bad."

The younger man shook his head as he limped closer. "That's just terrible. Poor Mister Bodkin."

Without looking up from his patient, Doc said, "You'll have to go after Matt and Kitty yourself, Chester. I can't leave."

"I know." He supposed he could round up the posse again, but the exhausted men had not slept in days. Of course, neither had he. Pressing his lips together for a moment, he nodded at the physician and tried to sound more confident than he felt. "You don't worry about a thing, Doc. I'll bring `em back."

But Doc wasn't listening anymore. He was too busy trying to save the banker's life.

Turning toward the jail, Chester mentally counted through the list of supplies he would need. If he hurried, he could be back on the trail in half an hour.

And time had suddenly become even more critical, because as the outlaws rumbled past him, Chester had recognized one of them:

Mister Dillon's old friend, Glenn Cantrell.

TBC


	13. Chapter 12: Ramblings

**Defend Me from my Friends**

**Chapter Twelve: Ramblings**

**POV: Kitty**

Kitty watched, horrified, as Matt's head snapped back, blood spraying, his big body thudding to the ground in one instant. Then he lay unmoving, a crimson pool growing beneath his head.

The scream was ripped from her throat as she tore from Layton's grasp. Vaguely, she heard Cantrell say, "Leave her be," as she rushed to the sprawled body. Somewhere behind her horses galloped away, somewhere outlaws made their escape, somewhere justice was cheated.

But she didn't care. None of that mattered. Nothing mattered except the bloodied body of the man she loved. Falling to his side, she cried out his name, gathering his head in her lap, his blood soaking her skirt, smearing her hands. She touched his face, ashen and slack.

"Matt! Oh, God. Oh, please God, no! Please!"

On the forsaken prairie, alone except for the wind and dust, Kitty Russell's world fell apart.

**XXX**

Leaning her head against the rough cabin wall, she lifted a weary hand and rubbed at her eyes in a vain attempt to soothe the gritty, raw feeling of being awake for almost two days straight. Her body ached from sitting in the unforgiving straight chair or on her knees, bent over the rough pallet for hours at a time. But each time she felt despair she watched his chest – that strong, broad chest – rise and fall, up and down, as the air went in and out. Glorious evidence that he was alive, that her world had not fallen apart – not yet.

Two days earlier, her hands and clothes smeared with his blood, she had bent over his battered body, grief-stricken and sobbing, unable to believe he had been snatched from her in that one horrible moment. But as she clutched him to her, rocking in anguish, a shudder ran through his limp frame, and he drew a ragged breath. With a cry, she pulled back, staring at his bloodied face, almost overcome with relief.

"Matt! Oh my God, Matt!"

Her hands ran carefully through his matted hair, over the wound she thought had killed him. A deep groove carved its way from just above his temple toward the back of his head for about three inches, but the bullet hadn't pierced his skull. She almost laughed with the realization, lifting her eyes skyward and breathing a deep prayer of thanks.

Still, she knew the shot had only compounded the damage of his other injuries, and his best chance lay in her ability to keep him alive until she could somehow get word back to Dodge. Steeling herself both physically and emotionally, she wiped away the tears and set to the formidable task of dragging him into the cabin.

Her arms and backed ached, and her muscles trembled by the time she finally managed to heave him through the doorway and far enough into the cabin to secure them inside. Knowing it would be impossible to get him onto the narrow, rickety bed – and not completely sure it was strong enough to hold him anyway – she contented herself with two rat-gnawed quilts spread on the floor and a threadbare blanket for cover.

Pushing away what was left of his shirt and tugging off his pants and union suit, she gently wiped as much of the blood away as she could, gritting her teeth, unable to quell the tears as she revealed the multitude of vicious tears and bruises from head to knees. Even not counting the head injury and leg wound, he was in bad shape, his stomach and back mottled purple and black and covered with swollen welts.

"Oh, Matt," she had groaned in misery. "Oh, I wish Doc were here. What am I going to do?"

But she knew what she was going to do – whatever she had to do to keep Matt alive. She slipped off her petticoat and used Matt's pocket knife to cut strips. Then she hauled a bucket of water from the well and tenderly sponged off his face, chest, and stomach, wincing as her ministrations made even clearer the harsh marks left by the outlaws' blows.

But she was most concerned about the leg wound he had gotten the night they took her. It had re-opened, blood soaking through her make-shift bandages almost as fast as she could rip new ones.

She knew the danger of internal bleeding from the beating he had taken. He was already running a fever, most likely because of the leg. She desperately wished Doc were there, and wondered if she should take a chance on leaving Matt alone in order to go back to Dodge to get the physician, but they had no horse, no wagon, nothing. She would walk if she had to – if it meant saving Matt, but she wasn't sure he could last long enough without someone at least trying to hold down the effects of fever.

And so she sat and waited. Waited for him to wake up. Waited for him to come back to her.

"Mister Dillon!" The call startled her, dragging her from fitful sleep. Heart racing, she scrambled to the crude cabin window, almost collapsing in relief when she saw the familiar lanky frame of Chester Goode. Flinging open the door, she rushed out, her hair flying wildly, not caring a whit that her face was scrubbed clean of paint, her dress tattered, dusty, and blood soaked.

"Oh, Miss Kitty!" he cried, dismounting and limping toward her. "Thank goodness! I was afraid – "

"Is Doc with you?" she asked abruptly.

"Well, no, he ain't. He's tending to – are you all right?"

A low, tortured groan drifted from inside the cabin. She saw Chester's eyes widen.

"Is that – "

"Matt's hurt bad, Chester. We need Doc."

"I know, but – but Doc cain't – oh, forevermore. Them filthy robbers!"

Another groan, this one louder and more agonized, interrupted them.

"Matt!" She ran back toward the cabin as Chester looped the reins of the horse around a scraggly bush and followed her. The cabin was dark, chilled, the uneven logs unexpectedly efficient at keeping out the heat. Even so, the long, restless figure that writhed on the hard ground was drenched in sweat. She saw Chester wince at the bloody head, the bruised cheek, the battered chest and ribs.

"Oh, my goodness," he breathed, genuine empathy coloring his tone. "What happened to him, Miss Kitty? He was fine when I – well, 'cept of course fer the leg – "

"They beat him, Chester," she said, her voice hard with fury.

"Who beat him?"

"Jake Layton – and Glenn, Glenn Cantrell," she spat the names out as if they nauseated her.

"Cantrell b-beat Mister Dillon?"

"Shh, Matt," she soothed, kneeling at his side and struggling to keep his body still, to prevent more harm from his thrashings. Without looking at Chester, she conceded, "I guess Cantrell didn't beat him directly, but he did shoot him."

"Shoot him!" Chester gasped.

"In the head."

"What?"

"Good thing it just kind of grazed him, even though it's a pretty deep graze."

Chester stared, open-mouthed as Kitty turned Matt's head slightly to show him the raw slash. "Cantrell and them other fellers robbed the bank," he told her, condemning them even more.

Kitty nodded. "I heard them talking about it. They get away with a lot?"

"I don't know. I come out here straightaway when Louie told Doc and me where you was."

This time, Kitty smiled sadly and turned toward Chester. "Louie must have told Matt, too. I wish now he hadn't."

"It was kinda an accident he told us, but I guess it's a good thing he did." He frowned down worriedly at the marshal. "What else you reckon's wrong with him?"

"I think he's got broken ribs, Chester. And I'm afraid maybe – well, maybe something's busted up inside, too. He's been mostly out of his head since it happened."

'He's just been a'lyin' here on the floor?"

"I couldn't get him on the bed by _myself_," she told him defensively, then allowed a slight smile at Chester's chagrin. "Maybe together we can do it."

"Yes'm. I'm sure we can."

Even with Chester's help it was no easy task hauling the marshal's long, solid frame off the floor and onto the narrow bed, but they managed, hoping that his sharp grunts indicated only pain and not more damage.

Kitty straightened a quilt over his body, frowning as she felt the fever radiating from it. "Bring me some more water from the well, would you, Chester?"

"Surely, Miss Kitty," he agreed, his own soft brown eyes tightening as he watched Dillon's head move restlessly back and forth and heard the mumbled ramblings. "Don't you worry." But she heard exactly that in his voice.

That night, Chester sat by the door in case Cantrell and the others returned, as Kitty continually sponged cool water over Matt's heated skin, across the broad chest, down the flat stomach, around the muscled biceps. Since they were in mixed company – even though it was just Chester – she kept a quilt draped over his hips, but left the swollen leg uncovered, exposing as much of his body to the coolness of the air as she could.

She had just nodded off briefly when he began to thrash.

"Lieutenant!"

Leaning in, she ran a hand over his forehead, alarmed that, despite her efforts, the fever seemed to be rising. "Shhh, Matt," she soothed.

But his fevered mind was lost in another time and place. "Lieutenant's – dead! I got him, Lieutenant! I got – oh, God! Glenn – No!"

Kitty's eyes widened at the agonized cry of that name. The war, she realized, amazed that it was the first time she'd ever heard him speak about it, the first time his nightmares – and there were plenty of those – had dredged up the certain horrors of that experience. As she listened to more of his distraught ramblings, the pieces fell in place.

"Fall back! Head for Thomas' corps – " His thrashing grew wilder; his sweat soaking the mattress beneath his head.

"Miss Kitty?" Chester pushed open the door and thrust his head into the cabin.

"He's burning up!" she cried as the other man hurried to her side.

"What can I do?"

"More water. Get cooler water from the well."

He snatched the bucket up and limped quickly outside.

Fighting to stay calm, she swabbed the cloth over Matt's neck and chest, desperate to cool him off. Finally, he settled, his voice falling to a hoarse whisper.

"I'm sorry, Glenn. I'm sorry – "

"It's okay, Matt," she soothed, brushing the hair back from his damp forehead. "It's okay."

"Sorry, sorry – " He trailed off, unconsciousness claiming him once more.

Water sloshed on the floor as Chester burst back in. "Here's some – oh, is he – is he better?"

"For now," she decided. "But he needs Doc. You'll have to go get him in the morning, Chester."

"But I cain't leave you here alone," he protested.

"I'll be fine." Her gaze lingered over Matt's battered features. "He needs more care than we can give him."

"Well, I reckon so, but – "

"Go."

"Yes'm."

At dawn she watched as he left reluctantly, glancing back at her at least three times before he disappeared over the small rise. Sitting again by Matt's bedside, she entwined his long fingers with hers and prayed he could hang on until Doc returned.

TBC


	14. Chapter 13: It's Okay

**Defend Me from My Friends**

**by MAHC (Amanda)**

**Chapter Thirteen: It's Okay**

**POV: Matt**

_The swarm of grays and browns and butternuts clashed with blue, bayonets flashing silver against the sun. His ears filled with the popping of gunfire, his nose with the acrid smell of gunpowder, his mouth with the bitterness of war and death. Grown men screamed in agony as lead ripped into their throats, and grapeshot tore through their guts. They lay writhing on the ground, raw flesh and organs making the air heavy and putrid. It was a horrible sight for a young man, even one who had already seen too much of life. _

"_Fall back! Fall back!" _

_Matt barely heard the orders over the chaos around him. He had expected them, though, after the nearby companies had been pulled away to plug a gap in another part of the line. Someone had made a mistake. Someone hadn't known what those men at the front had known. But Matt wasn't in charge, wasn't the man directing battalions. _

"_Come on, Sergeant!" his lieutenant called, waving his hand with impatience. "Let's get those men mov – "_

_The spray of blood and brains created almost an artistic effect, a momentary halo in the rays of the afternoon sun. The lieutenant looked stunned, his mouth open, even as the bullet smashed through his skull. His fall seemed impossibly slow to Matt, who watched, heart pounding, stomach roiling. _

_But training kicked in, and the young sergeant spun, his brand new Spencer carbine up and firing with accuracy honed from too many years of experience in one so young. The Johnny Reb who had done in his lieutenant cried out, flying backwards, but Matt saw enough in the one glimpse he had to bring a cry of disbelief to his lips._

"_Glenn!" _

_It had been five years since he'd seen his friend, but they had gone through enough as boys on the verge of manhood to be bonded. He called out again; no one answered amid the louder shouts from both gray and blue._

"_Whatta we do now, Sergeant?" someone asked. _

_Matt turned to see at least twelve men staring at him, their eyes wide, chests heaving. Fall back had been the order, and he had no reason to contradict it. The Rebels were about to overtake them. He had an obligation to his men. _His_ men. Suddenly, at 23, he was in charge of the entire company._

"_Fall back!" he ordered, voice hard, confident, masking a fear he couldn't suppress. "Head for Thomas' Corps. Go!"_

_And they went, scrambling from the lost ground without looking back. Matt watched for another few beats before turning around. Glenn Cantrell still lay fifty yards before him. Gritting his teeth, Matt sprinted through the sparse stand of trees, dodging Minié balls, until he reached his old friend. The chest still rose and fell, and he breathed thanks for that._

"_Matt?" Cantrell asked, tone clearly doubtful._

"_Take it easy, Glenn. I'm gonna get you outta here." Heaving the enemy over his wide shoulders, he ran toward the Confederate lines, mumbling all the way, "I'm sorry, Glenn, I'm sorry."_

"_It's okay, Matt," Glenn told him. _

"_It's okay."_

"_It's okay." But the voice wasn't Glenn's anymore. It grew softer, richer, loving. And he knew there was only one person that voice belonged to._

**XXX**

Matt Dillon had never been run over by a stagecoach team, but he figured he knew now what it might feel like. His entire body throbbed in an irritating variety of rhythms that pounded over his ribs, across his back, down his legs, and most excruciatingly, through his thigh and his skull. As he realized he was conscious – and apparently still alive – he fought to gather enough strength to open his eyes, a move he instantly regretted and reversed as light from somewhere almost blinded him.

_Don't do that again_, his brain admonished, but he ignored it and tried once more, this time cautiously and slowly, barely squinting until he could make out shapes enough to assess his surroundings. He didn't need to look long to find reassurance.

"It's okay," she continued to soothe, until her eyes suddenly met his. "Matt!" Her voice grated with ragged relief and raw joy. Leaning over him, she looked haggard and anxious and exhausted – and absolutely beautiful.

"Kitty," he tried to answer but was pretty sure he failed.

Her arms were around his neck, her breasts pressed against his chest, her tears wetting his cheek. "Oh, Matt! I thought – I thought you –"

He knew what she thought. He had thought the same thing there for a little while. Swallowing, he tried again to speak, this time with mild success. "I'm okay – Kitty."

"Of course you're not," she responded through choked sobs, but as she pulled back he saw the smile on her lips. "But you're going to be. Oh, Cowboy, I was so afraid that – "

He mustered a weak smile of his own, not sure she could actually tell. "Tell me – what – happened. Where – are we?"

Visibly fighting to control her emotions, she sucked in a calming breath and wiped at her eyes. "Well," she began, cupping his jaw in her palm, "Cantrell tried to kill you. He just – he just _shot_ you." Her newly won control cracked. "Oh, Matt, he just – "

He shook his head, then gasped at the pain that knifed through his skull.

"Stay still," she urged him unnecessarily. "I don't know how he missed, but somehow that bullet grazed you instead of – of – "

Teeth gritted, he managed, "Didn't – miss."

"What do you mean he didn't miss? That bullet could have gone right through your –" Her voice cracked, and the sound tore at his soul. After a moment, she sniffed and declared, "Hit or miss, he did enough damage to knock you out for three days."

He blinked. "Three days?" Not foolish enough to try to rise, he nevertheless looked past her, focusing on where they were. "Dunbar's – cabin," he realized.

She nodded. "You were in no shape to try to get back to Dodge, and I couldn't leave you to get Doc, not when you might – " Tears welled in those magical eyes again.

Matt reached out to take her hand and hold it against his chest. "You – okay, Kitty?" he asked, kicking himself for not asking before. Layton had made his interest in her clear, and Matt felt nausea rise in his throat at the thought that he might have –

"I'm fine, Matt," she assured him, her eyes telling him it was the truth.

He fought against the emotion that relief brought. "Okay," he whispered, bringing her fingers to his lips and brushing a soft kiss against them.

Caressing his face softly, she leaned in and touched her lips to his, careful of the cuts and bruising. When she pulled back, she kept his jaw cradled in her palm. "You sure worried Chester," she told him, smiling lightly.

He frowned, confused. "Chester?"

"He was here last night, looking for you."

"He's not – still here?"

She shook her head. "I sent him back to bring Doc for you."

"Kitty," he protested, "I don't need – " But he stopped when he couldn't deny that he did, indeed, need Doc.

"He would have come with Chester, but he had to tend to Mister Bodkin."

Squinting, he asked, "What happened – to Bodkin?"

Suddenly, Kitty's eyes widened, and she hesitated. "It, uh, it doesn't – "

Hand shaking, he reached out to grasp her arm. "What – happened to Bodkin? What aren't you – telling me, Kitty?"

"It doesn't matter, Matt. There's nothing you can do about it right now."

Her arm shook from his faltering grip, but before he was forced to let go, he ground out, "What – happened to – Bodkin?"

Sighing, she lifted his hand tenderly and laid it back on his chest. "After they shot – after they left here, Glenn and the others went back to Dodge and robbed the bank. They shot Mister Bodkin on the way out. Doc stayed to try to save him."

He bit off a curse, then asked, "Did he?"

"Save Bodkin?"

He nodded slightly, grimacing with the pain.

Shrugging, she said, "I don't know."

After a moment, he sighed, resolved to do what he had to do, foolish or not. Bracing his body, he tried to sit, shivering with the chill that crossed his bare skin when the quilt slid from his hips to the floor.

But the chill was forgotten as agony slammed him back onto the bed, surging through him and wiping away every sensation but white, blinding pain. He thought he heard Kitty's anxious voice, but he couldn't acknowledge it. Finally, the burning rush eased enough to allow him to breathe again, just a shallow kiss of oxygen to keep him from passing out. This time he heard her clearly.

"— gonna finish what Layton and Cantrell started. I told you to stay still – "

"Yeah." Voice tight and barely audible, he conceded her point. Finally, when he could open his eyes again, he felt the sting of guilt at the sight of her terrified face. _ Don't do that again_, his brain scolded once more. This time, he heeded the advice.

"Need to – go after them," he gasped, regardless of how impotent the idea was.

"Not today," Kitty said confidently, covering him once more with the quilt.

Matt tried to drag in a deep breath but aborted the move quickly. _No, not today. _"Kitty," he said, his ragged voice asking for honesty, "how – bad?"

She sighed. "Without Doc here I can't know for certain, but I feel pretty sure you have a concussion, and they worked you over good. The way your side is swollen, I'd say you have a broken rib or two, and your back is all bruised up, and your leg is pretty bad, and your head – " She let her fingers brush gently over his battered face and teared up again. "Oh, Matt, they hurt you so – "

Darkness closed in on him, but he managed to murmur, "It's – okay, Kitty. It's – okay – "

He was out before she could call him on the lie.

TBC


	15. Chapter 14: Half Dead

Defend Me from My Friends

by MAHC (Amanda)

Chapter 14: Half Dead

POVs: Doc/Matt

Being the only physician within a hundred miles was a difficult job even at the best of times, but at the worst it was just about impossible. As Chester guided the wagon over the rutted prairie road, Doc Adams fretted over both the patient he had just left and the one he was headed to see. So far, Bodkin had survived a chest wound, something Doc had seriously doubted would happen when he first knelt by the bank president there in the dust on Front Street. He had labored the rest of the day and into the night to dig out the bullet and keep the other man alive. And he would still be there by his side if Chester had not barreled back into town around midnight two days later shouting up the stairs that he had found Mister Dillon and Doc needed to grab his bag and come immediately.

Regardless of his close connection with Matt Dillon, though, Doc couldn't just leave Bodkin in such a tenuous condition, even with Chester's impatient insistence. It was another eight hours before he felt his patient was stable enough to leave in the hands of his wife and Ma Smalley. Exhausted, having managed only a few hours' sleep in the past three days, Doc rubbed at his eyes and squinted across the grassy plain before him, wondering in what shape they might find Matt. Frustration ate at him over his inability to get to the marshal earlier, and he wasn't sure if he could handle it if – if Matt was – if he hadn't been able to hang on until –

"It's just over the rise past them trees, Doc," Chester said over the rattle of the wagon wheels. "Shore am glad we found ol' Buck wanderin' around. Mister Dillon'd be mighty sorry ta lose him."

Doc turned to look at the big buckskin tied behind them next to Chester's bay. He hoped Buck's master would be coherent enough to be happy about seeing the gelding.

They rode along in silence for another few minutes, until Chester sighed and shook his head. "I shorely hope Mister Dillon's doin' better. I tell ya', Doc, I ain't never seem him look sa' bad. I mean his face was all bruised up, and his stomach was black and blue, and – "

"Chester – "

" – his leg, you know the one that got shot, well it was kindly red and swolled up – "

"Chester!"

The marshal's assistant stopped abruptly and stared at his companion. "Doc?"

Swallowing hard, the physician shook his head of the guilt that twisted through him with the vision Chester painted all too clearly. "Let's just – just get there, all right?"

"All right. I was just tryin' ta tell ya what ta expect."

Doc heard the hurt in his friend's voice but didn't respond – couldn't respond. Emotion pushed to the surface by fatigue stung his eyes with tears. He turned away so Chester wouldn't see, fighting back fears that had not yet been realized. He prayed they never would.

xxx

_The smells of battle assaulted him again, choking him. He knew what was coming, but he couldn't do one thing to change it. Again he watched as the lieutenant jerked in death, again he raised his rifle, again he fired at the rebel, and again he saw Glenn fall._

"_No!" he yelled to himself, to the rebels, to the war. "No! _

"_I'm sorry, Glenn, I'm sorry."_

"_It's okay, Matt."_

"_I'm sorry."_

"Shh, Matt. Shh."

The battle noises faded away, replaced by a soft, soothing voice and a gentle hand.

"Kitty," he mumbled.

"Yes, Matt. I'm here."

Still hazy, he lacked the will – and desire – to keep one of the few secrets he still held from her. He forced burning, bloodshot eyes open, looking at her, knowing from her startled expression that his guilt and pain were clear.

"Glenn," he gasped. "I had to try – give him the chance because – because I – I – "

"Shot him," Kitty finished.

His face showed surprised, then confusion as the question formed on his lips, then comprehension as it died there. "Nightmare?" he figured.

"Delirium," she clarified.

Groaning, he shifted to an elbow, despite her attempts to keep him down.

"How do you feel?" she asked, brushing a lock of matted, sweaty hair back from his forehead, careful of the raw slash left by Cantrell's bullet.

A near-chuckled escaped him. "I've felt better," he admitted.

She gave him that understanding, intimate smile that he'd never seen her give anyone else. "I'm sure Doc will be here soon. You just rest."

"Rest with me," he coaxed, easing his shoulders back onto the bed.

"I don't want to hurt you."

He smiled. "You won't. I'll be all right."

He tugged her down toward him, pressing her head gently against his shoulder, allowing her fingers to caress his chest, which he just now noticed was bare, not that he minded. A bit of concentration revealed that his chest wasn't the only thing that was bare, and it gave him hope for his recovery to note that his body managed at least the beginnings of a reaction. Grinning slightly, he took her hand and slid it down until it rested over the semi-hard evidence below his waist. "See?"

Eyes wide, she fussed, "Matt Dillon! How can you – "

"I'd have to be dead not to respond to your touch."

A mischievous smile curved her lips as she curled her fingers gently around the responding shaft, quilt and all. "So I guess it's good that you're only_ half_ dead."

He winced, but her kiss softened the sting of her tease. "Come all the way in here with me," he coaxed, patting the bed.

Seriousness washed over her smooth face. "No, Matt. You really do need to rest – "

"I'll rest better with you next to me," he assured her.

"Somehow I doubt that. And I know_ I_ sure wouldn't rest."

A smirk lifted his mouth. "If I promise to be good?" The pain throbbing through his body would ensure that promise.

"You're _always _good. That's what I'm worried about. Besides, the bed's not big enough."

"We'll manage."

Shaking her head, she slid out of her outer clothing, leaving on the pantalets. "For safety," she warned him.

He smiled, considering it a victory, and enjoyed the softness of her body curled next to his, trying to ignore the torture of both his injuries and her enticing curves as he drifted off again.

xxx

When he woke again, the sun had moved higher in the sky, the rays no longer casting harsh light into the cabin. He gritted his teeth and braced to slide out from under Kitty and off the bed. After some moments of nausea and shooting pain, he forced himself up on weak, trembling legs and stumbled to the cabin wall, his battered, naked body shivering from the rush of adrenaline that accompanied his determination. Exhausted, Kitty shifted on the bed, moaned his name, and settled back, still asleep. His ruined clothes lay by the fireplace, and he managed to limp over to them, one arm thrust out against the wall to keep his balance, his thigh screaming, his head pounding. It took a strong will and almost ten minutes to pull on his bloodied pants and shirt, and once he got his trousers buttoned, his fingers shook so much that he didn't bother with fastening the shirt. Socks and boots proved almost impossible, since he was trying to tug them on without sitting on the bed and disturbing Kitty. He contemplated using the rickety-looking chair but decided he'd mostly likely end up on the floor, and the chances he could haul his weak body back up were slim. Finally, he braced his back against the rough wall and somehow managed to finish getting himself at least partly dressed. He waited a few moments, gulping air as quietly as possible; then a few more labored steps brought him to the cabin's threshold -

- just in time to hear the bed squeak.

"What the_ hell_ are you doing?" She sounded as angry as he figured she'd be, hands on her hips, eyes flashing.

Blinking against the dizziness, he resisted the urge to tell her how beautiful she looked when she was mad – that wouldn't help at all – and said, "I have to go after them, Kitty. You know I do."

"No, I _don't_ know you do!" Furiously, she jerked her dress from the end of the bed and shrugged into it, in preparation, he figured, either to stop him or to follow him. "Matt, you can barely stand. There's no way – "

"Kitty – "

"Matt_, please!"_

The agony on her face cracked his resolve. He reached out, drawing her to him so that they leaned against the door frame, ignoring the pain that movement created. His left hand cradled the back of her head as she pressed against his chest. His lips brushed her tousled hair. He knew he had to go; she knew he was going to go. But for just a moment, they could forget about Glenn and Bodkin and the bank and everything else except for their bodies holding each other. It wasn't as if it was the first time.

xxx

From Chester's dire description, Doc expected to find the lawman just moments away from death. Instead, he and the marshal's assistant arrived to the scene of an intimate embrace framed in the cabin doorway.

Still, even from the wagon, he could see by the way Matt held himself that he was suffering. And the blood splattered all over his clothing only reinforced the obvious.

"Well, forevermore," Chester said, staring.

"Matt?" Doc called, grabbing his medical bag and climbing down to the ground.

Without turning or releasing Kitty, Dillon asked, "How's Bodkin?"

Doc breathed out, almost a laugh. Just like Matt. "He'll live, I think. Bullet was deep. Lost a lot of blood. Not unlike someone _else_ I know."

Kitty pulled out of the embrace just as he reached the doorway. "Doc, please talk some sense into him. Tell him he can't go."

"Go? Go where?" He didn't give Matt the chance to answer. Instead, he took the big man's arm to guide him back into the cabin. "You just get back on that bed – " Glancing down, he added, "Such as it is."

Dillon's voice protested even as his body betrayed him by obeying. With a grunt that sounded almost grateful, he collapsed onto the quilt. Doc lifted an eyebrow when he had Matt push down his pants to get a look at the leg wound.

"I was – in a hurry," the marshal explained, seemingly unconcerned about his lack of union suit.

Doc smirked. "Hurry for _what_?" He was rewarded by the flush of red that colored the handsome face.

But that was the last moment of levity for a while. Despite his gentle touch, Doc was unable to keep from drawing several gasps and a groan or two from the seriously wounded man as he continued the examination.

"What the hell happened to you?" he muttered. Matt didn't answer, his jaw clenched, his eyes closed.

"How is he?" Chester asked when Doc finally straightened and tugged the stethoscope from his ears.

He shook his head. "Any other man – " he began, then thought better of the blunt statement when he caught a glimpse of Kitty's expression. "He's got a lot of healing to do," he amended. It certainly wasn't an overstatement.

She lifted worried eyes in acknowledgement.

"You done, Doc?" Matt asked hoarsely, dragging his abused body from the bed and standing somewhat tentatively before them.

Adams shook his head in irritation, staring at him. "You are the stubbornest – "

"Doc," Dillon said, duty and pain weighing down his tone, "I have to go after them. They have that bank roll and – "

"And Glenn Cantrell betrayed you." The revelation occurred to him suddenly.

That strong brow frowned. "It's not that – "

"Isn't it?"

Any sane man would have shrunk to nothing in the face of the formidable lawman's hard stare, but Doc Adams had long ago realized he was far from sane. Otherwise, why the hell would he have stayed in a raw, frontier hellhole like Dodge City when he could have been sitting pretty in some modern, clean, big-city hospital?

After a long moment, Dillon cocked his jaw and shook his head gingerly, eyes tightening with pain. "Maybe – maybe some, Doc," he said, an admittance that worried Adams even more than the anger.

He looked back at the marshal, grateful for the stubbornness that kept him alive, although he wouldn't admit it. Softening now that he had made his point, he allowed, "Only natural. I'd feel the same way."

The normally strong voice was barely a whisper. "Yeah."

"But you aren't going anywhere right now."

"I told you – "

"Matt, do you have any idea what kind of shape you're in?"

Dillon breathed out in a short laugh, then grimaced. "I think I do, Doc."

"I wonder. You have at least two ribs cracked, a gunshot wound to the head – "

"Just a graze – " Matt tried to interject, but Doc ignored him.

"And I'm pretty sure you're suffering from the effects of a concussion. Not to mention some pretty severe contusions and lacerations – and a serious leg wound that's also given you a fever. No way you'll sit a horse, even for a few minutes."

But that declaration only seemed to sharpen the younger man's determination. "I'm sorry, Doc, but I've gotta go."

The physician threw a frustrated glance toward Kitty, saw from her expression that she had already been through the same conversation with the stubborn marshal. She sighed, her face pale and drawn with worry.

They both watched as Matt struggled to stay on his feet, somehow forcing his battered body across the room to stand braced in the doorway. His next words were thick with reluctance. "I could – use some help saddling Buck."

"Ol' Buck ain't in good enough shape ta go anywhere, Mister Dillon," Chester told him.

"What?"

"Doc an' me found him out on the prairie. We watered and fed him, but he's awful tired."

For a moment, Matt looked confused. Then he squinted outside and nodded. "Guess I'll need to take your bay, Chester."

"Now just a minute – " Doc began.

"Matt!" Kitty pleaded at the same time, but he was already limping heavily toward the back of the wagon.

"Chester," Doc said loudly enough for Matt to hear as he struggled to climb onto the horse, "as soon as Buck is rested enough, take him so you can bring _the marshal_ back when he falls off."

The patient didn't acknowledge the admonition, but finally managed to swing his injured leg up and over so that he could seat himself in the saddle. With a final look back at Kitty, he clicked the horse forward.

Doc heard a soft sob as Kitty stepped up beside him and took his arm. He patted her hand in comfort. "He'll be okay," he reassured her. "He'll be okay."

But his mind held other thoughts. _He won't make it half a mile before he drops._

TBC


	16. Chapter 15: Us Menfolk

Defend Me from My Friends

by MAHC

Chapter 15: Us Menfolk

POV: Matt

Despite Doc's prediction, Matt didn't drop after half a mile. He didn't even drop after a mile and a half. In fact, he managed to stay in the saddle for over ten miles before his body finally collapsed against the horse's neck and tumbled onto the hard prairie.

About three miles into his search, he had picked up a trail that looked as if it had been made by three or four horses running hard. A closer look – as close as he could get without risking a dismount – showed occasional patches of blood along the way. He wondered who was hit, didn't know if he wanted it to be Glenn or not.

After five miles, his head started swimming, and he clung to the saddle horn and the bay's mane to keep his seat.

By ten miles, he could barely tell the sky from the ground; the earth spun dizzily before him, and, even though he fought with all of his waning strength, he lost his desperate hold on both consciousness and the reins.

His last thought before darkness enveloped him was that Doc and Kitty were right. He'd tell them so – if he managed somehow to survive.

xx

"Mister Dillon? Mister Dillon?"

Matt Dillon blinked twice, winced, and squinted. The sweaty, worried face of Chester Goode hovered over him, haloed by the sun's glare. Closing his eyes against the bright pain, the marshal groaned and shoved one hand beneath him, pushing up against the hard ground, prickly with stiff prairie grass.

"Let me help ya'," Chester offered, and Matt felt his aching body hauled up until he sat, legs thrust out, shoulders hunched over, head cradled in his own hands. "Are ya' arrite?"

_Hell no_. "Sure."

"You just set a minute 'fore we git ya' on a horse and back ta that cabin," his friend directed, leaning over him.

"No," Dillon managed past the swirling vision and nausea that suddenly swept over him. Swallowing gingerly, he added, "Can still – follow their – trail."

Chester's teeth clicked impatiently. "Forevermore, Mister Dillon! Them fellers is long gone, and you ain't in any shape ta' ride after nobody anyway."

Unable to deny the truth in what the other man said, Matt raised his head, the acknowledgment of defeat deep in his reddened eyes. He felt beaten down even past the physical bruises and tears Layton and his men had left. Guilt weighed heavily on him. This was his fault. If only he had checked out Glenn to start with, if only he had sent that telegram to Pueblo earlier, if only he had been more careful when he confronted them in Kitty's office. If only he had done all those things, Kitty wouldn't have been taken, the bank wouldn't have been robbed, Bodkin wouldn't have been shot. This was his fault, and now he couldn't make it right, couldn't do a damn thing about it. If he gave up now, by the time he was well enough to go after them, Glenn and the others could be anywhere.

"Mister Dillon?" The alarm in Chester's voice forced his eyes open, and he found himself sprawled on the ground once more, no memory of lying – or falling – back down. Steeling himself to raise his battered body again, he rolled up onto his hands and knees, facing the low ridge that had been his aim only a few minutes – or was it hours – before. He squinted at the wavering dark cloud that drifted skyward just beyond it. Then he opened his eyes wider when his vision sharpened.

"Chester," he said, wishing his voice held more strength.

His assistant bent, offering an arm for support. "Yes, sir?"

Taking the arm, Dillon grunted as he pulled himself to his feet, hanging onto Chester until his own legs proved they weren't going to give out on him. His success was tenuous. Fighting for breath, he nodded toward the ridge. "There," he gasped. "Smoke – over that – hill."

Chester followed his gaze. "Ya think it's them, Mister Dillon?"

"I – think." _I hope._

But the normally gentle voice was firm. "'Cept I don't figure it matters none, even if it is. You can't do nothin' about it, not the shape – "

Placing a shaking hand on Chester's shoulder, he insisted, "I can't – let them get – away. Not – now when they're – so close."

"Mister Dillon, I just can't let ya do it. Doc'd have my hide, and, my goodness, Miss Kitty too. I hate ta think what she'd say if – "

He looked hard into the kind brown eyes, his own eyes asking for the promise even before his lips voiced it. "I need your – help, Chester."

"Aw, now Mister Dillon that ain't fair. You know I'd help you anyway I could, but goin' after them men when yer all – well, it's just crazy. I mean even a posse – "

"I'm asking, Chester."

His friend stopped talking and stared at him for a long moment. Matt saw the conflict on his face. Finally, with a reluctant sigh, Chester shook his head. "I know I'm gonna be sorry, but l – well, I can't just let ya' go off by yerself, can I? Miss Kitty'd skin me fer sure."

An expression that came close to a smile softened Matt's pained features. "Thanks," he whispered.

A broader smile answered him. "Yes, sir. Long as you tell Miss Kitty I tried ta talk ya out of it. You know women don't understand what us menfolk have to do sometimes – "

"I'll tell her." Matt tried to steady himself and found Chester's left arm around his waist and his own arm slung over the other man's shoulders. In no position to protest, he accepted the assistance. "Help me – get back on your horse."

"My horse? Don't ya want to ride Buck?"

"Better stick with – yours," Dillon said, not even looking at his own mount. "Not as – big. Easier to – get on."

Nevertheless, it was with considerable effort that Chester heaved him into the saddle, having to move behind and push the marshal's wounded right leg over as Dillon braced his left one in the stirrups, forcing himself not to cry out when agony screamed through the ravaged thigh. After he was finally mounted, sweat trailed down his face and dripped on his trembling hands as they clutched the saddle horn.

"Now, are you sure you wanna do this?" Chester asked doubtfully, swinging himself onto the big buckskin. "I mean, I could get you back ta' Dodge, an' then we could get us that posse – "

"I'm sure," Matt managed to grind out between clenched teeth. Taking as deep a breath as he dared, he dug his left spur into the bay's flank and clicked him forward, reckoning he had about fifteen minutes to figure out just what he would do with Layton and his group – assuming he was still conscious when he got there.

**TBC**


	17. Chapter 16: Pot Shots

Defend Me from My Friends

by MAHC (Amanda)

Chapter 16: Pot Shots

POVs: Matt

" – an' then I told ol' Joe if he was ta use real cow beef for his steaks instead of mule, he might get more of them customers he's complainin' about goin' ta that little Mexican place edge of town – "

Chester's voice droned on, sounding more and more like a pesky fly buzzing beside Matt's ear. The marshal blinked sweat from his eyes and braced his body for each torturous clop of the horse's hooves as they plodded on, trailing Layton and Glenn Cantrell.

"You been ta that place, ain't ya, Mister Dillon? Now, I'm no Mexican, that's fer sure, but I believe them's about the best tortillas I ever eat. 'Cept I kindly forget it's there, ya' know, being so far out – "

Matt found his eyes closing against his will and forced them back open, peering blurrily at the landscape, no longer flat but now broken by an outcropping of rocks to the right and a low ridge of trees straight ahead. His first thought was that maybe they could rest under the trees for a spell. His second was that if he got off the horse, he'd be done for, and they'd never catch Glenn and Layton. His third made him lean forward and squint hard, lifting a hand to shield his vision from the sun's glare. The smoke they had seen miles back continued to swirl above the rise.

" – and they could be usin' mule meat for all I know, too, but I reckon I don't mind a bit if it tastes so – "

"Chester."

" – good with all them spices they put on – "

"Chester!"

The zing of a bullet sent Matt ducking as a chunk of dusty sod kicked up beside him. Another zing was followed immediately by the dull thud of lead plowing into horse flesh. The bay screamed, bucked, then crashed to the ground. Matt threw himself clear just before the dead weight would have pinned him, his shoulder slamming against the hard earth, his head bouncing off the prairie floor.

"Mister Dillon!" Chester called, panic in his voice. "Mister Dillon!"

Stunned, the marshal lay still for a long moment, fighting to catch his breath. When it did return, he had to clench his teeth together to avoid his own scream.

"Mister Dillon? You all right?"

_Yeah. Sure._ Dragging in a shaky breath, Matt ignored the question and asked hoarsely, "Shot – come from – that ridge?"

After a moment's hesitation, Chester said, "Yes, sir, I believe so."

Matt glanced past the horse's flank just in time to see the flash of another rifle blast. "Get down!" he yelled, flattening himself behind the carcass. Fire burned across his left bicep, but he didn't spare a moment to see how much damage the bullet had done to the hard muscle. The sound of a slap and hooves galloping told him Chester had sent Buck off toward safety. That meant they were both on foot – or on bellies at that point.

"Can you make those rocks?"

"Well, yeah," Chester figured. "But, Mister Dillon, I can't leave you out here in the open for them fellas to take pot shots at."

"You just go for the rocks, draw some fire – but be careful," he directed, as if he had a foolproof plan. In fact, he had no plan at all. His head pounded, and the rest of his body throbbed so much that he could barely concentrate on the moment, much less the future, even if it was just seconds away.

He watched as Chester scrambled behind the natural shield, then yelled, "Glenn Cantrell!" as best he could, not completely sure his weakened voice would carry all the way to the ridge.

A barrage of gunfire answered him, some bullets plunging into Chester's unfortunate bay, others whizzing past Matt's ears. After a moment, he heard Chester return fire and took a quick breath when the outlaws turned their attention toward the outcropping.

When the echo of shots faded, a hard voice called from the ridge. "Dillon?"

"It's me, Layton," he answered, grimacing at the pain that effort caused.

"Son of a bitch!" the outlaw screamed. "Damn you, Cantrell, you were s'posed ta kill him!"

Swallowing to muster another bit of strength, Matt called out, "I'm here to – take you in, Layton!"

A high cackle echoed across the expanse between them. "You are, huh? Cantrell might not have killed ya, but you ain't in no shape ta bring me in, I guarantee thet."

Matt waited a few minutes, partly because he was trying to figure out what Layton would do, partly because he didn't think he had the energy to yell back quite yet. Before he could do anything else, however, he felt himself being hauled up from behind the protection of the horse. Resisting as best he could, he tried to twist in the stranglehold, getting a glimpse of a familiar snarling face before being thrown back to the ground. Matt groaned, fighting to gain his feet, only partly successful before Ox's massive fist smashed into his jaw, sending him sprawling again.

If the contest had taken place in Dodge, odds makers would have given Marshal Dillon the advantage, even though the other man stood almost head-to-head with him and outweighed him by a good forty pounds. Usually, their lawman could outfight and outsmart any two-bit challenger. But that was in a fair fight, and this bout was far from fair. Ox pummeled Matt another five or six times before he pulled back to grin down at the battered, bleeding marshal.

"I'm gonna finish whut Cantrell shoulda," he growled, tugging a knife from his boot.

Blinking blood and sweat from his eyes, Matt watched the gleaming blade come at him, aimed right at his midsection, poised to rip him open. He swiped frantically at his hip, his hand falling on an empty holster. A fierce yell exploded from his lungs, mustered by a last effort to evade being gutted by the lunging outlaw. Using the burst of energy, he rolled to his left, gasping as the tip of the weapon sliced across his ribs. It only delayed the inevitable another few seconds, he knew, but instinct for survival ran deep, especially when he thought about the redhead waiting for him back at the cabin. As he pushed up on his hands and knees, bracing for Ox's final thrust, he glanced down, almost laughing when his eyes spied the pearl handle of his pistol lying next to his left thumb. But his attacker was already on him, arm raised for the fatal stab. He grabbed the discarded Colt, fingers snapping around the barrel. With no time to turn it and fire, he swung with all his fading strength, smashing the gun into the side of the outlaw's head. Ox jerked but recovered almost immediately. Mustering one last effort from the last trickle of willpower he would have sworn had run dry, Matt slammed the butt of the pistol against the big man's temple, a hard whoosh of air expelled from his lungs as Ox collapsed on top of him.

Unable even to push the dead weight off, he lay there, eyes closed, gasping for breath, fighting pain and nausea and encroaching unconsciousness. Through pounding ears, he heard footsteps crunch over the dry prairie grass, closer and closer until his abused body was finally relieved of the oppressive bulk. Sucking in a grateful breath, he opened his eyes, working to focus on his rescuer.

"Chester," he rasped.

"Sorry, _Marshal_," the rough voice answered. "Chester ain't gonna be comin' ta help ya."

Matt squinted at the figure above him, but he didn't need to see to know who it was. "Layton."

All he heard in response was the cocking of a pistol.

TBC


	18. Chapter 17: Gut Shot

Defend Me from My Friends

by MAHC (Amanda)

Chapter 17: Gut Shot

POV: Matt

Despite his cavalier approach to the possibility of his own death, Matt Dillon had, on occasion, considered how he might meet his end. Most of the scenarios took place on Front Street as he faced off with one too many gunslingers. A few involved perishing on the prairie at the hands of bushwhackers. Not one of them had him drifting away peacefully in bed at an old age.

As much as he hated giving scum like Layton the satisfaction of killing a U.S. Marshal – of killing _him_, he figured it was as likely an end for him as any other.

His vision was still blurred as he peered up into the ugly, twisted features, ignoring the black barrel of the pistol staring him in the face. He had never been one to give up, but he had felt the last reserves of strength drain from his body when he took down Ox. He doubted he could even lift a finger to point accusingly at his killer. The sharp sorrow that cut at his heart was not for himself but for Kitty. Her fears would finally be realized, and there was nothing he could do about it.

_I'm sorry, Kitty._

Layton sneered above him, straightening his aim so the bullet would hit right between the eyes. At least, Matt thought, it would be quick. If he just had a few more minutes to catch his breath, to make one more attempt. The outlaw's finger squeezed the trigger, but Matt Dillon kept his eyes locked with the other man's, catching a surprising gleam of admiration.

"Layton!"

The gun swung from Matt as the outlaw turned, already firing in the direction of the call. Managing to lever up on an elbow, Matt stared at the crumbling body of Glenn Cantrell, pistol swinging then dropping from his hand.

"I though you wuz fast, Cantrell," Layton sneered. "You couldn't beat a runny-nosed kid."

Taking a breath, Matt reached out to grasp his own pistol but grimaced when he saw the cracked chamber, broken when he smashed it against Ox's hard head.

Layton swung back around, face contorted in a combination of hatred and triumph. "And now for you, _Mister_ Lawman."

Pressing his lips together Matt sucked up enough strength to crawl to his knees, intent on at least giving Layton a fight before he went down, but while he was still struggling up, a rifle shot shattered the air. The outlaw's body flew backwards, sprawled on top of the dead bay, a gaping hole in his chest.

"Mister Dillon!" Chester called, limping and running toward him, the barrel of his shotgun smoking, one side of his head matted with blood. "Oh my goodness, Mister Dillon! Are you all right?"

Mustering a weak smile, Matt said, "I could ask – you the – same thing."

"A coupla them fellas tried to git past me, but they ain't gonna be a problem no more." He rubbed at the wound. "Kindly wish I hadda seen 'em earlier though."

Nodding, Matt let his eyes show how glad he was that his friend wasn't seriously injured.

Chester squinted at Ox's hulk. "He alive?"

"Dunno," he breathed. "Tie him up anyway."

"Yes, sir."

"Cantrell?" Matt asked, lifting his right arm.

Chester shook his head as he offered his hand for assistance. "He jest ran right past me and hollered fer Layton. Didn't even fire after he done drew."

Gaining his feet, he stared at Glenn's body, forgetting for a moment about all the bad things and remembering the youthful adventures they shared. Forcing back pain and weakness, he stumbled toward Cantrell, falling to his knees beside the wounded man, heart sick when he saw the volume of blood that pulsed from ragged hole in his gut.

Grimacing, Glenn looked up at his old friend. "See yer – noggin – is still hard – as ever," he gasped.

Bracing an arm around Cantrell's shoulders, Matt lifted him carefully until Glenn groaned with the movement. "Hang on, Glenn. I'll get you to Doc." But he saw death's shadow already darkening the ashen face.

Cantrell gasped and shook his head. "Ain't gonna – need no – sawbones." He tried to smile but the effort fell short. Blood splattered Matt's shirt as Glenn coughed roughly and rasped, "Shouldn't'a – got ya' – into this." Shouldn't'a got _her_ – "

"What happened, Glenn?" he asked. "You could have beaten him easy."

"No – bullets," Cantrell wheezed. "Stupid, huh?"

Matt shook his head, expression tortured. "I'm sorry, Glenn. I wish – " Hesitating, he debated whether or not to say anything else. What good would it do a dying man for him to purge his guilt?

"Reckon we're – even now."

"Glenn – at Chickamauga – I didn't see you until – I didn't know it was you, or I wouldn't have fired – "

Cantrell tried to focus his eyes on Matt's face. He was fading fast. "What?"

"Chickamauga. Horseshoe Ridge. I didn't know –"

Cantrell's eyes were glassy, and Matt could see he was fighting to stay conscious. Then he choked out a strangled laugh. "Ya think _you – _shot me?"

Matt's anguished eyes told the story.

Another laugh that quickly ripped into a cough sprayed more blood from Cantrell's lips. "Hell, Matt – all these years – "

"I should have told ya then – "

"It was – Harp," Glenn said, voice weak now, barely more than a breath.

Matt stared at him. "Harp? But – but Harp was – was on your side."

"And he couldn't – shoot worth shit," Glenn added, breaking off another painful laugh. "Put a – minié ball in – my leg."

Minié ball? Visions of firing his new Spencer carbine flashed across Matt's memory. Years of guilt, of second guessing, of what ifs dissolved with the realization. But he found that it made little difference at the moment. "Glenn, I'm sorry."

"Still figure – yer responsible fer everything." Shaking his head feebly, Glenn said, "Layton's saddlebags – bank money."

"I'll get it, Glenn. You just don't – "

But the dying man clutched Matt's shirt, literally hanging on with the last of his strength. "Listen – other money – Kitty's – office – hid behind – crate of rye. Jake – don't know – " Another cough wracked his body.

"Glenn – "

"Didn't lie 'bout – that. Yers – buy – ranch or somethin' – take her – with ya. She don't need ta – put up with – drunks like me – pawin' her no more."

"I'll get you on your horse – "

Glenn laughed feebly. "Ain't ya never – seen a man – gut shot before, Marshal?"

Matt worked his jaw hard.

"I'm done fer."

"Glenn – " Matt couldn't say more.

"Wuz good ta see yer – big ol' self – again." The smile was still on his face when the last breath left his body.

Slumping back, Matt lifted a hand to close Glenn's staring eyes, then dropped his aching head, his eyes falling on the useless gun. Fingering the cool barrel, he sighed and cursed the uncharacteristic moment of forgetfulness that had gotten Glenn killed.

"Mister Dillon?" Chester called softly from behind him.

Matt blew out a tentative breath and lifted the pistol, frowning as his thumb smoothed over the cylinder. Looking into it, he stared for a long moment. Then, teeth gritted, he turned the cylinder click by click as one bullet dropped to the ground, and another, and another. When he was done, six bullets lay beneath him.

'Mister Dillon?" Chester said again.

Carefully placing the gun beside Glenn's body, he braced a hand on the grass and pushed up, his body and mind numb. He thought he tried to stand, He thought he tried to turn toward Chester. He thought he tried to thank him for saving his life. But hazy realization dawned that he only succeeded in falling flat on his face, his vision going black before he hit the ground.

TBC


	19. Chapter 18: For Dust You Are

Defend Me from My Friends

by MAHC (Amanda)

Chapter 18: For Dust You Are

POV: Kitty

It rained the day of the funeral. Standing morosely in the elements, a thin shawl poor cover against the steady downpour, Kitty Russell stared numbly past the preacher, the drone of impotent words meant to comfort falling without comprehension on her ears.

"By the sweat of your brow you will eat your food until you return to the ground, since from it you were taken."

Doc stood beside her, hat in hand, gray head bare despite the weather, eyes pained and sad.

"For dust you are and to dust you will return."

It took four men to lower the coffin evenly into the grave, their efforts to ease the final journey successful save for a moment when one of them lost his grip, barely managing to regain a hold on the slick rope before the burdened vessel could plummet the final few feet.

The minister barely took a breath before beginning his recitation of the 23rd Psalm. Kitty could not help flinching when the first clump of dirt hit the wood – a dull thud, followed by another, and then another as chosen townsmen cast shovel upon shovelful of sodden prairie soil into the grave, slowly obscuring the rough pine box until it could no longer be seen.

Even after the men had finished, dutifully patting a smooth pattern onto the mound, only to have it instantly altered by hundreds of raindrops, Kitty lingered, shaking the preacher's hand, nodding to respectful mourners.

"Come on," Doc urged, tugging gently at her arm. "Let's get you back inside and dried off."

But she couldn't leave just yet. Thoughts of "what if" swirled through her mind.

What if Glenn Cantrell had never come to Dodge? What if Matt had not trusted his old friend from the beginning? What if she hadn't been so foolish as to let herself be taken? What if Matt had stayed in bed with his wounded leg like he should have? What if Chester had gotten to Matt earlier? What if –

Her weary thoughts were drawn back to those hours of waiting on the prairie, standing in the hot sun, staring off across the grassy plain, hand at her throat, watching, waiting for a glimpse of a horse and rider – two horses and two riders. Despite Doc's advice, which finally turned into pleas, she couldn't pull herself away, couldn't bear to wait inside the cabin. Somehow, being on the prairie felt closer to Matt, as if she could help him, send him her strength, make sure Cantrell and Layton didn't win this time.

"Chester'll be bringing him back, Kitty," Doc had assured her as soon as the gangly assistant disappeared on the horizon. "My gracious, Matt won't make it to where Cantrell is. He won't even make it – " The craggy face flinched in realization of what he was saying, and he stopped, shaking his head.

Kitty knew that well enough, knew that the average man's chances of staying in the saddle long enough to meet up with the outlaws were slim. But she also knew that Matt Dillon was no average man. And Doc knew that, as well. If anyone could overcome such severe injuries long enough to challenge the men who were responsible for them, it was Matt Dillon. But challenging and then surviving the challenge were not the same.

She shuddered, but it wasn't from the chill of the rain; it was from the terrible memory of Chester's return, of seeing that dark speck appear in the distance, growing closer and closer, wavering and blinking under the hot sun until Kitty could finally discern a shape, a man, and a horse, and another horse, and something trailing behind them. Nausea still pushed at her throat at the remembered vision. Sprawled on a make-shift travois, he looked more like a twisted bundle of soiled rags at first glance, blood splattered from head to toe, flesh swollen, features distorted, clothes ripped and stained. Doc's inadvertent groan revealed the truth, and she couldn't deny that the physician had tried his best, had worked as hard as he had ever worked to save Matt, even knowing that sometimes even the best isn't good enough.

When the hard-packed earth began to melt into mud, Doc took her arm again, more insistent this time. "You'll catch your death, Kitty," he admonished in a soft but firm voice.

Acquiescing, she allowed him to escort her around quickly-forming brown streams cutting through the streets until they reached the boardwalk in front of the Long Branch. Turning, she placed a hand tenderly against his cheek and allowed a small smile.

"Give me a little time alone, would you, Doc?"

He sighed but nodded. "I'll be up to check later. You just try to get some rest."

She nodded back at him, but both of them knew there was little chance rest would find her anytime soon. Trudging up the stairs, she let her gaze flicker across the saloon, bittersweet memories of easier times flashing through her mind – friendship and laughter, fellowship and comfort.

As her slow steps brought her closer to her room, her mind meandered through those early days of tentative teasing, which, despite the wariness from past pain on both their parts, led inevitably to breathtaking discovery, deepening passion, and finally long-lasting love.

So much to live for. So much to lose.

TBC


	20. Chapt 19: Nothing He Hadn't Done Before

Defend Me from My Friends

by MAHC (Amanda)

Chapter 19: Nothing He Hadn't Done Before

POV: Kitty

Sighing, Kitty collapsed into the soft chair by the fireplace, tugging off the sodden cloak and trying in vain to pull some warmth to her chilled body from the dying embers. She rubbed at bloodshot, stinging eyes and drew in a deep breath, leaning forward in the chair she had occupied almost constantly for the past week as she waited, hoped, and prayed.

"It's over?"

She turned toward the strained voice and smiled sadly, nodding at the long, battered frame that had been laid out on her bed ever since they had limped back into Dodge trailing three dead and another much too close to it.

The frame shifted, then groaned as long fingers reached out to her. "Thank you for going, Kitty."

Pushing wearily from the chair, she walked to the bed, catching his outstretched hand and bringing it to her lips, brushing gently, gratefully. "It wasn't a problem."

"I know better," he murmured, and she flinched at the uncharacteristically weak tone. "I 'preciate it."

Kitty let her other hand cup his jaw as she looked carefully at him. The face, bruised, cut, and swollen, was still the most handsome she had ever laid eyes on, and she told him so. His hoarse chuckle was the first genuine bit of cheer he had shown in days, even if it drew a quick grimace to the battered features.

"Glenn didn't have anybody. Not here anyway." He let out a hard breath. "Except maybe – me, in a strange way."

"I'm sorry, Matt," she said, sliding her hand gently over the strong curve of his bare shoulder. At his questioning gaze, she added, "About Glenn. I know you wanted to believe him. I know it was hard to realize –"

Pursing his lips and shaking his head gingerly, Matt interrupted her. "I never really – believed him, Kitty. Not even back then. I just – hoped, I guess, that he'd changed."

"Not everybody can be like you, Cowboy." Her fingers entwined in his, caressing slowly, and she eased herself onto the side of the bed.

He winced as he tried to shift his aching body. "Glenn wasn't – that bad, at least he – didn't start off that way." With a heavy sigh, he let his head fall back onto the pillow. Kitty saw the fatigue and pain clearly on his face. "He just didn't have a real – direction in life."

She smiled, surprised. "That's pretty deep."

Matt rolled his eyes, cheeks flushing a bit in embarrassed acknowledgement.

Humor disappearing, she swallowed, eyes moist. "I'm just so grateful he was such a bad shot out there. I thought – "

He squeezed her hand.

She squeezed back. "I was so afraid you were – you were –" Forcing back tears that threatened with the fear that had come too horribly close to reality, she took a breath and continued more calmly, "But he missed, thank God. I don't know how, but – "

Matt lifted his brow and looked up at her, lips curving in the shadow of an ironic smile. "Glenn didn't miss, Kitty."

Her fine brows drew together in a frown. "You said that at the cabin. What do you – "

"He skimmed me on – purpose, so Layton would leave us – leave _you_."

Mouth open in shock, she shook her head. "I can't believe – "

He released her hand and brushed at his chin with bruised, torn knuckles. "He told me, warned me not to move, remember?"

"I just thought – "

"Glenn's a sure shot," he reminded her, then amended in a whisper, "_was_."

"But why?"

He shrugged, cutting off the move abruptly when his body protested again. "Figured he owed me, I guess."

"From the war?"

He nodded. "But he didn't know that I – at least I _thought_ I – "

"Shot him," she finished, gently reminding him that she had heard his feverish cries at the cabin. Then, realizing what he said, she asked, "You didn't?"

"Doesn't matter. Not anymore."

She peered at him, easily reading his desire to let the issue drop. "What happened to Layton out there?"

"Not sure, but Glenn intentionally – drew his fire so Chester had a shot." He swallowed and closed his eyes. "He claimed his – gun wasn't loaded, but – "

Kitty watched as his lips pressed together hard and he swallowed again. "But it was," she guessed.

"Yeah," he confirmed, glancing up at her.

Her opinion of Glenn Cantrell shifted a bit at this unexpected revelation, and she felt a sudden flood of pity for a man who might have been good deep within but never had the chance to break through the chains tying him to the mistakes of youth.

Matt's eyes had closed again, the lines around them tight. Brushing her fingers through the damp hair at his temple, Kitty leaned over and pressed a kiss against his forehead, still warm with fever. A fleeting smile was his only response. She watched him for another few minutes, grateful to hear his breathing grow slow and steady and see his features relax. Bending once again, she let their lips touch, hers warm and soft, his bruised and cut.

"Miss Kitty, I – " The door flew open, and Chester swung into the room, his cheerful greeting tumbling into silent air as his eyes took in the scene before him. "Oh! I'm – I'm mighty sorry, Miss Kitty. I didn't mean to interrupt – " Cheeks pink, he flung a hand up as if to shield his vision and turned to leave.

"Wait," she called, briefly caressing Matt's swollen jaw before easing off the bed and enveloping the other man in a tender hug. "You aren't interrupting, Chester. I'm glad you're here. I haven't really gotten a chance to thank you for saving Matt's life."

The assistant blushed deeper and ducked his head. "Well, forevermore, Miss Kitty, I didn't do nothin' Mister Dillon ain't done fer me or a bunch of other folks before."

She couldn't argue with that but knew that it took a great deal of courage for Chester to do what he had done. "Still, you were very brave." Reaching up to brush at the bandage around his head, she added, "And you even got wounded yourself."

A proud grin broke across his face. "Well, yeah, yeah I did. 'Course you know I'd do anything for Mister Dillon. 'Sides, Doc said I'd be all right." He paused, then added seriously, "After a while."

Kitty patted him fondly on the shoulder. "And I'm grateful."

"How's Mister Dillon doin'?" Chester asked, smile disappearing.

"Oh, he's – he's doing just fine," she assured him, hoping it was the truth.

"I sure hope so." He clicked his tongue against his teeth. "I don't mind tellin' ya he sure had me worried on the way back, rantin' and thrashin' and talkin' outta his head."

Kitty's heart ached at the thought, at the memory of what dreadful shape Matt had been in when Chester finally got him back to the cabin. It hurt to consider how close she had come to losing him.

"But you know Mister Dillon," Chester hastened to add at the expression on her face. "Nothin's gonna keep him down long. Why don't you just go on back over there and set a spell with him. And tell him not to worry; I'll take care of everything in Dodge."

She smiled at his confidence. "I'm sure you will."

He opened the door, then turned back, snapping his fingers. "I like ta' forgot. I come ta tell Mister Dillon about that money Cantrell said was hid at the Long Branch."

She remembered hearing Matt mumble something about that but figured it was from the Pueblo robbery. "What about it?"

His answer was to reach into his front pants' pocket and extract a grimy, creased piece of paper. With a strange look on his face, he held it out for her. Kitty unfolded it and ran her gaze over the dark, bold print.

Blue eyes widening, she looked up, meeting a similar expression from him.

"Oh my god!"

TBC


	21. Chapter 20: When, Not If

**Defend Me from My Friends**

**by MAHC (Amanda)**

Chapter 20: When, Not If

POV: Various

Matt Dillon fought to break through the fog that filled his head, vainly grasping at slivers of consciousness, chest aching and tight as if a blacksmith's anvil pressed down on it. His last clear memory was of Kitty sitting by his bedside, but past that, jumbled sounds and sights encroached on reality and thickened the fog until he wasn't sure what was real and what was induced by his fevered mind.

He heard Chester's voice say something about money. He saw Glenn's fixed, dead gaze staring up at him as the final breath left his old friend's body. He heard Kitty's worried tone as she asked Doc if he was better – or worse. He saw Doc's scowl hovering close to his face, heard the old physician threaten him. _Damn it, Matt Dillon, if you die on me, I'll – I'll –_ And then the fog thickened, and even the slivers disappeared, and his chest closed tight, and he didn't hear anything at all.

xxx

Chester Goode fretted behind Doc and Miss Kitty, peering around them as best he could in a futile effort to determine for himself just how bad off Mister Dillon was. The letter he had brought to show the marshal had been stuffed hastily into a front pants pocket as soon as the injured man's breathing grew alarmingly labored, sending Kitty immediately back to his bedside and Chester to the door to call for Doc. That had been hours ago, hours during which Chester and Kitty took turns pressing cool compresses against the burning forehead. Hours during which Doc listened almost continuously to the ominous wheezing inside that broad chest. Hours during which all of them wondered if relief over his apparent recovery just that morning was doomed to be shrouded by grief before dawn broke again.

xxx

Kitty Russell tried to ignore Chester's sighs and tongue clucking behind her. She knew he was worried about Matt – they all were, of course – but she didn't know how much longer her nerves could stand the constant, irritating sounds. It was as if each noise stabbed right through her, twisting home over and over just how badly hurt – and now how sick – Matt was, just how close to losing him _she _was.

"Chester!" she finally snapped, then pressed her lips together when she glimpsed the look of injured surprise on his face.

Doc swung around, frowning at the younger man and clutching Kitty's arm in firm support. "Why don't you go check the jail?" he suggested bluntly.

Eyes wide, Chester protested, "But, Doc, I need ta be here for Mister Dillon. What if – "

"What if he wakes up and hears all that commotion you're making? He'll think somebody di – " His words stopped abruptly, and he flashed a look of apology at Kitty. "Well, why don't you just – just be quiet?"

"You ain't the only one worried about Mister Dillon," he argued, feelings on his sleeve.

Mustering a tight smile, Kitty touched his shoulder and said, "Of course not, Chester. We know you're worried. But right now – right now Doc maybe just needs some time to figure out what else to do. You understand, don't you?"

He tilted his head and nodded. "Well, surely I do, Miss Kitty. Some folks just don't know how ta tell people things polite-like." With a glare at Doc, he limped to the door. "I'll be taking care of things around town. When Mister Dillon wakes up, tell him that so he won't worry."

Smile softening a bit, Kitty agreed, already turning back to look at the prone figure on the bed before the door had completely shut. _When Mister Dillon wakes up_…_when_, not _if_, she fervently prayed.

xxx

Doc Adams pulled the stethoscope away from the flushed, glistening skin of Matt Dillon's chest, shaking his head and drawing in a heavy breath. When Kitty looked up at him sharply, he mirrored her concerned gaze, regretful that his own concern was so apparent. As a physician, he needed to be a vessel whose hull of reality nevertheless moved under the sails of hope. He just hoped this ship wasn't sinking faster than he could bail.

"No change," he assured her. No change in this case was good – at least for now. If Matt could hang on through the fever, if he could fight long enough to break it, if he could find the strength to outlast the new assault of pneumonia on top of his grievous wounds – if he could just…_live_.

He looked down again at the familiar face, its handsome lines twisted in the struggle to breathe, to dampen the pain, begging his dear friend to fight. But his patient merely lay there, wheezing, shivering, and neither confirming nor denying his intent to stay with them.

**TBC**


	22. Chapter 21: A Rusted Coffin Lid

**Defend Me from My Friends**

**by MAHC (Amanda)**

Chapter 21: A Rusted Coffin Lid

POV: Matt

Matt Dillon jerked awake, as usual. He supposed there had been a time in his life when the sweet melody of a kestrel, or the warm rays of the sun, or maybe even the loving whisper of a mother had drawn him gently from slumber. But if those moments had ever occurred, they were lost to his memory. For most of his adult life, sleep had been yanked away with a shout or a gunshot or the sickening sweats of a nightmare. And so it was again – the spasm of muscles shooting pain through his body, infesting every sinew, every nerve with burning agony until he gritted his teeth so hard he feared they would shatter.

Slowly, as if prying up a rusted coffin lid, he opened his eyes, blinking and squinting against the light.

"'Bout time!" declared a gruff voice beyond his vision. Forcing his gaze a bit wider, he saw Doc standing at the foot of the bed, the older man's curly gray hair wild and unkempt, his trousers and shirt wrinkled and worn. Matt had seen that look before; it meant Doc had stayed up day and night with a patient. He didn't have to wonder which patient this time.

"Doc," he mumbled, uncertain that he had actually managed to make a sound. He tried to shove up on an elbow but pain knifing through his lungs forced him back against the solid mattress.

"Hold on," Doc scolded, moving to the side of the bed and pressing one hand gently but firmly against Matt's shoulder. "Stubborn…"

_Stubborn?_ Matt drew a breath, intending to protest, but instantly decided he would do that _later_ – when his head didn't pound and his leg didn't scream and his stomach didn't heave and his chest didn't ache.

"Matt?"

_There_ was the voice he had waited to hear, longed to hear, for…hours…or days…or weeks? He had no idea how long he had lain there in Kitty's room, had only a vague memory of even being there after his awareness vanished out on the prairie.

With more effort than he had thought it would take, he managed to turn his head enough to see the beautiful – if rather haggard – face of Kitty Russell hovering over his. He might have said her name or just thought it, but she smiled either way, tears shimmering in her blue eyes.

"Matt," she choked, squeezing his hand gently. He tried to squeeze back, and again wasn't sure if he had.

"What – happened?" he rasped.

Doc cocked an eyebrow and sent a pointed look toward him. "Well, you just decided that getting _shot, knifed_, and _beaten up_ wasn't enough, so you went and got _pneumonia_, too!"

That explained the anvil on his chest. Before he could respond, he heard a knock at the door. "It's me!" Chester's voice called.

Kitty didn't budge from her place by his side, her eyes still locked on him, her smile broad and grateful. He smiled back as best he could.

"Mister Dillon?" Chester asked as he entered, his own voice filled with excitement. "Oh my gracious goodness, we were worried about you. Ol' Doc here ain't slept in two days, an' Miss Kitty ain't even eaten – "

"All right," Doc interrupted. "He just woke up. Give him a half a minute to focus his eyes." But the physician was smiling, too.

Suddenly, Chester snapped his fingers and grinned. "I'll be back terreckly," he declared, spinning on his good leg and scurrying back out.

"He _was_ worried about you, Matt," Kitty told him, fingers stroking his arm. In a whisper she added, "We _all _were," before the tears gathered again.

"It's okay, Kitty," he mumbled, frowning at how frail his voice sounded. "I'm okay." Briefly lifting his gaze, he asked, "Right, Doc?"

The old man returned the look seriously. "I think so, Matt. I think so."

Matt found his eyelids sliding shut again, despite his desire to stay awake. Doc's and Kitty's voices faded to muffled murmurs, and after a few seconds – or maybe minutes, the door burst open again, jarring him from his impromptu nap, and Chester rushed in, a crumpled piece of paper in one hand and a bulging gray sack in the other.

"I brought this over for ya. Figured you'd wanna see it." He shoved the piece of paper toward Matt, who nodded for Kitty to take it. He already felt completely exhausted, even though he had apparently been out of it for two days.

Not waiting for Kitty to reveal the contents, Chester rattled on. "I found it behind the rye. Not sayin' that I read the note or anything, but…well, this Mister Adrian M. Smthye, esquire, from Virginia City, wrote that this here money was from some fella named Harp McLeod, 'cept he up and died and left it to Glenn Cantrell and you, and then – "

Matt's brain spun dizzily – whether from his injury, his sickness, or the Chester's rambling he couldn't tell. "What?"

Kitty's soft hand rested on his arm. "Seems Glenn was telling the truth, Matt," she clarified. "That money really was from your old – uh, friend."

Gritting his teeth, he tried to push up in the bed, but pain swept through him, and for a moment he merely concentrated on not heaving as Kitty and Doc fussed over him. Finally, he groaned out, "Glenn stole that – money, and Harp was just – he never – "

She held up the paper. "Nope. This is a letter from a lawyer, like Chester said." She handed it to him, showing an addition note scrawled at the bottom. He squinted at it, trying to concentrate past the headache and incredulous story. Sure enough, it was from Glenn, misspelled and crude, but very clear that he was leaving all of the money to his old friend the marshal.

Matt looked up again, jaw slack in shock.

Well," Doc said after they stared at each other a few moments, "I might actually get paid for patching you up this time."

Matt grunted.

Looking back and forth between Matt and Kitty and then heading toward the door, Chester declared, "I'll be headin' out now, Mister Dillon. Don't you worry about a thing; I'll take care of Dodge."

Matt ignored Doc's eye roll and lifted his chin toward the younger man. "Chester?"

His assistant stopped and looked back.

Eyes leveled and serious, Matt drew in a careful breath and offered simply, "Thanks."

Chester flushed slightly, opening his mouth to respond but ending up just nodding before he turned and left. Settling back against the pillows, Matt glanced at Kitty and found her smiling tearfully at him. He cleared his throat and smiled back as they heard Chester singing on his way down the hall.

"My daddy come west to Kansas…"

**TBC in Epilogue**


	23. Chapter 22: Only Three

**Defend Me from My Friends**

**by MAHC (Amanda)**

Chapter 22 (Epilogue): Only Three

POV: Chester/Kitty

"My daddy come west to Kansas,

ta' make his home in Kansas."

Chester voice filled the jailhouse, and he smiled, content again after a hearty breakfast from Delmonico's.

"But all he made

was his own grave

when he crossed the path of Killer Dave – "

This morning, as had been the case the past five weeks while Mister Dillon convalesced under Miss Kitty's care, Chester went about his work with renewed purpose. The harrowing experience he and the U.S. marshal had gone through strengthened the bond between them, and it became much more friend-to-friend than boss-to-assistant.

He paused in his work, leaning his chin on the handle of the broom as he remembered the simple but deeply-felt thank you Matt Dillon had given him. Even now, his eyes watered at the feelings that moment evoked. To have Matt Dillon thankful to him, proud of him…Chester didn't think it could get much better than that.

"You th' marshal?"

Head jerking up from his daydreaming, Chester looked toward the figure framed by the doorway. "Huh?"

"I said, 'Are you the marshal?'" The man's eyes, slightly crossed over a rather crooked nose, glanced around uneasily. He ran a hand over his small, sandy-colored mustache.

Chester blinked. "Oh, Heavens no. The marshal – " He stopped abruptly, eyes narrowing. "Uh, the marshal's out."

Scratching at greasy brown hair topped by a brightly-colored, wide-brimmed hat, the man asked, "When'll he be back?"

"Who wants ta know?" After Glenn Cantrell, Chester wasn't about to let Matt Dillon be bushwhacked again.

"Look," the stranger said, shaking his head, "I'm an old, uh, _friend_ of the marshal's."

_Old friend, indeed. He didn't figure Mister Dillon needed any more "old friends" showing up._

"Mister," Chester announced boldly, "the marshal's still uh…well, he's…he's gone is what he is. He's just gone."

The other man squinted his crossed eyes suspiciously, then shrugged and said, "Arrite. When Hickok gets back, you tell him – "

"Hickok? Wild Bill Hickok?"

The other man nodded. "Ain't he the marshal here?"

"No!" Chester grinned with relief. "No, he ain't. Marshal Di – um, somebody else is."

"Wild Bill ain't here?"

"No, sir," Chester confirmed, then feeling suddenly helpful, offered, "Last I heard, he was up in the Dakotas somewhere."

"Dakotas, huh?" After a moment, the man nodded, his stance relaxing. "Well, then, guess I'm sorry I bothered ya." He reached for the door but turned back and added, "You see him, you tell him Jack McCall is lookin' fer him."

"Jack McCall. All righty. If I see Wild Bill, I surely will tell him."

As McCall headed down the boardwalk, staggering slightly, Chester watched him, shaking his head and thanking the Good Lord that _this_ old friend wasn't Matt Dillon's problem. Besides, from what he knew of Wild Bill Hickok, the man could handle Jack McCall just fine.

xxx

Kitty Russell drew in a deep, satisfied breath and snuggled against the warm, hard body that lay next to her, burrowing her head against the broad chest and letting her fingers dance gently over the newest scars, still more red than pink but healed enough that Matt insisted on resuming his marshaling duties the next day. She was particularly grateful he also felt like resuming certain other "duties" even sooner. In fact, they had spent most of the previous night – and a good part of the morning – exercising those certain other "duties."

Stretching lazily and sliding a slender leg over the muscled thigh that pressed against her, she murmured his name.

He half-groaned his response. "Hmm?"

"Did Jazziel teach you that, too?"

She smirked at his surprised grunt, but he didn't ask what she meant. Instead, humor lightening his exhausted tone, he answered, "Uh uh. I learned that one from a beautiful redhead."

"Mmm, you sure learned well, Cowboy."

"Yeah?"

"Oh, yeah."

Snuggling even closer against him, she let her mind, floaty and light, wander over the events of the past few weeks, thanking the Heavens for bringing him back to her, if not completely safe and sound, then alive, at least. Her thoughts lingered on the irony of Glenn Cantrell turning out to be a good guy – sort of – after all.

"Matt?" she asked again, speech a bit slurred with encroaching sleep.

"Hmm?" His sounded the same.

"What are you going to do with all that money?"

In truth, it wasn't as much money as it once had been. Kitty wasn't completely sure where a good chunk of it went, but it had not gone unnoticed that Ma Smalley suddenly had a shiny new stove in place of her old broken one. And Doc had found a package containing a new stock of his most commonly used medicines at the top of his stairs. And the young Widow McGee and her infant daughter had awakened to the soft moos of a milk cow tied to their front porch. And at least a half a dozen more citizens of Dodge discovered themselves to be recipients of a bit of needed serendipity.

He shifted to look down at her, stirring her from imminent slumber. "What do you think I should do with it?"

"Oh, I don't know." Opening her eyes, she glanced up at him. "Maybe take a trip?"

"That'd be some trip," Matt observed, chuckling and leaning back against the pillows again.

"Or buy some new clothes."

"What's wrong with my old ones?" he protested. "Besides, there's a lot more money than I'd need for just shirts and pants."

Maybe it was extreme relaxation that let it slip from her lips, but she said, "Then why don't you buy land for a ranch and build a house big enough for – a wife and three kids?"

Silence met her for a long pause, and Kitty clenched her teeth at her own foolishness. "Oh, I…uh…I didn't mean – "

But he stopped her by pressing a firm kiss against her lips. The clear blue eyes held no hint of teasing when he asked softly, "Only three?"

Astonishment flashing across her face, she could only stare until he pulled her back down against his shoulder, kissing her temple and cradling her to him as they both drifted into pleasant, hopeful dreams.

**END**


End file.
